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Memoire of Absence by Muriel Dexter

Weeks ago after he has suffered a major stroke, Mr. Perdue still lies on the same hospital. No one knew for certain how long more the man would remain in this state. Some suggested, should he come back to life, given his advanced age and the length of time spent “outside this world”, the condition had already damaged some most vital faculties making his recovery impossible. Some others had already pronounced him dead.

A rattle behind the door. The door swings open. A young child wearing a cowboy hat stands on the threshold and aims a gun at an old man lying on the bed. A bald man stands behind him.

“Not now! Not now,” says his father without raising his voice. “Shush! Grand-pa’s sleeping. Be quiet” The stout man seizes the young boy darting across the room by the arm.  The boy collapses on his knees, refuses to get up. The man lifts him up several times to put the boy back on his feet. But each time, the boy lets himself collapses on the floor.

“If you stay quiet, I’ll buy a new gun later. Ok? Look, grand-pa’s asleep."

The boy stops gesticulating and looks up at the man. He frowns and scowls. The bald father releases him.  The boy remains calm for a couple of seconds. But then, he lowers his eyes, something goes through his mind, an impish expression on his face. He then rushes to the bed and begins to shoot at the old man with his silver plastic gun. The father bolts toward the boy, wrenches the gun off his hands. The boy starts screaming and crying. He stamps his feet and tosses his hat on the floor.

“That’s enough now,” says the father. If you don’t stop I’m getting a nurse to take you away.”

Nurse Nicole comes in at this moment, carrying a small transparent plastic bag with a big wide label. The boy stops crying and takes refuge behind his father’s legs, clings the track suit rustling pants.  She picks up the hat.

“Looks like you’ve lost your hat, Mr. Perdue.”  She looks at the kid hiding his blond head.

“Hi, what is it your bringing him today?” the father says, pointing at the small bag. The boy still hiding behind his father’s legs, aims his gun at her. He confiscates the gun from him. He stars crying again. The father pushes the kid toward the nurse, the kid moans and clutches to navy pants.

"Nothing you would want.  Vanilla soufflé."

“Vanilla? My father never had a sweet tooth.”

"Well, he's been fine for the last two weeks." She swaps the feeding bags, turns a big white knob on a rotating machine, and the food drips down a peg straight into Mr. Perdue senior.

She turns toward Mr. Perdue Junior; he averts her inquisitive gaze. She stretches the old man' limbs.  She walked around the bed and inserts a fine tube inside the large vanishing inside the dying man’s throat. He gags. Then the old man lies motionless again, his breathing slow and imperceptible. The young cowboy stands still. He monitors her mechanical gestures, holding the cowboy hat in one hand. Within a minute she is on her way to the door.

“Has he been awake today?”

“I don’t know I wasn’t on duty.”

Nurse Nicole leans over the old man's body and injects a pink liquid inside with a large plastic syringe inside the peg in the stomach. Harry moves towards the bed, looks at his father’s hand, swollen and bruised. He asks the nurse the hand why is in this state. The boy takes advantage of their conversation to steal the gun back, sticking out of his father’s pocket. Sam aims the gun at the nurse and shots her, "Bang! Bang! Bang!" She turns round to face the boy, hunches her arms on her waist, tilts her head sideways, and gives him a menacing air. The boy ran back behind his father's legs.

"He gets calmer when his mother is around."

She cracks the blind open. The natural light enlivens the old man ashen skin. The heavy traffic’s hum on the highway outside the window is silenced as she turns the ventilator on again. Harry watches the yellowish viscous substance dropping from the drip-bag inside a long flexible plastic tube disappearing underneath the sheet. He notices his father’s belly looks bloated. He presses on it. Rock hard. She explains the antibiotics constipate patients. She turns the old man’s head. He does not respond.

As soon as she leaves the room, Harry picks his son up and draws him near the bed.

“Look, that’s grand-pa.”

The boy stared with a frown at the dormant man with his yellow complexion.

"I don't like Grand-pa—he stinks," he said, kicking his feet to be let down. He turns his head away.  Harry searches for something to entertain his son. He turns on the TV, flicks through the channel. “I’m gonna kill ya,” says a skinny wolf on the set.

A village on the North Sea coast. A tiny village perched on the cliffs, facing the coast of England.  An unique street where both ends lead nowhere. It is a cul-de-sac with a blind alley on one end, barred by both a barbed-wire fence with a blockhaus inside it, and the sea at the other welcoming the audacious visitor, opening wide its silver, green and blue glass-like vastness. There are stairs made out of concrete to gain access to the beach, about twenty-five steps, and before the sea several levees of rocks, where tourists in summer can be seen making fools of themselves, awkward, dangling on the rocks with pale frail limbs, ignorant of the laws of the sea. Depending how remote the rocks are from the coast, their colors vary, running from a sandy, beige tone to a green, and even anthracite covered algeas that the sea unveils in low tide. Processions of ships glide by the coast like slow caterpillars, mysterious and cocoonless, far in the distance, chiseled on the horizon, flickering and bobbing in and out of sight, but always reappearing and impregnating the mind with uncertainties.

Silence exists on the shore despite the constant drone of the breaking waves and the blustering wind. The silence presents in the memory.  Habits give the illusion of silence.  Tales never told. Two, three week expeditions off the Norwegian coastline to fish cod, herring, or haddock, off the Terre Neuve, Saint Pierre and Miquelon, for Tuna.

The only access to this cul-de-sac is by the main street that cuts it in two. The only way towards land and civilization. At the end of the main street, the schoolmaster’s house. Charlotte lives there. With a small knife two bricks from the wall surrounded the property fall down. The sun is out for once and floods the garden’s lawn. Charlotte wears a red dress. The schoolmasters rests in a long chair, reads a book, and sips on a large cold tea. He wears his usual white hat. Charlotte reels around him. “Hi Charlotte.” She waves back. The schoolmaster turns around and she has to go back inside the house. The bricks are walled back in. 

The house has an appropriate name, sticking to the mind like an indelible accent, a constant reminder of origin. Strange thing to be born in this house. As if the premise existed before the birth. “Vogue au large:” Sail off to the open sea says the small painted plaster sign above the front door. Already the name omits the possibility of return. It evokes the idea of floating and drifting while aiming at an unknown destination.

The house is small, minute. A two-bedroom house where at a time twelve kids squeezed in. A house without a bathroom, a toilet. Just a hothouse clinging on the edge of a fallow patch of a muddy path, where weeds creep up against the frail wooden construction. A house without gas and hot water. Just an incongruous cold water tap. Downstairs a large room, a multipurpose room. At times a kitchen, a dinning room, a bathroom, a laundry room. A room without privacy. A man with a sun burns face and hands and pallid limbs washes himself at the sink while two women are eating at the large wood table. Next to the sink, a steel furnace always overheating, regardless of the season, always requiring careful vigilance to be fed. Life in the house rhymed with life in the sea. It is permanent everything discourages an overstay.

Along side the wall giving onto the small yard of the house, a man in a blue frock feed rabbits. He keeps them in small cages; they are cramped but silent. He leaves like every morning with an empty basket and a knife with a wooden handle, and heads towards the countryside, inland. About a mile up the main road, near a small wood, he cuts through a field and gathers dandelions. He performs this ritual day after day, no matter the weather. He has been retired for a few years but also still works out the sea, everyday waking up in the middle of the night to catch the tide. He helps local fishermen.

There is a woman leaning above the stove, holding down the top of a caldron. Pushing it down. A hiss comes out. Inside, an agitation. The caldron is full of water, slowly boiling. As temperature rises the occupants push up the lid to escape. With her hand swaddled in a tea-cloth she maintains the lid in place. At times drops of condensation rimmed over the edge of the caldron and drip down on the gas flames, making swishy sparkling explosion turning the bleu flames red. Slowly, the scratching and scraping inside subside. The bubbling water and the hiss of the flame drown the lobsters and crabs’ whimpers. Lobsters and crabs do cry. A fresh spice smell in the house rises. Always a caldron full of crabs and lobsters simmering on the stove, releasing the prevalent scents of rosemary, thyme and laurel leaves. No stench ever in this house. A delicate smell to approach death.

The man grabs the dandelions from the basket and throws them by the handful in the cages, often on top of the rabbits. They crawl up over each other, startled. As the agitation grows more frantic so does the stench emanating from the cage. The man in the blue frock readjusts his cap. A dark blue woolen cap with a black embroidered anchor on the front. He removes the cap. Several waves of dry sweat appear on the top, small concentric halo with crystal-line demarcations. A deep reddish line leaves a white imprint all around his forehead. Ephemeral bloodless scar. He rubs his forehead, puts the cap back, chews on a cigarette’s butt which at some point was lit. He keeps it in the corner of his mouth for hours on end. Saliva creeps towards the charred end, covering the yellow corn paper with an oily glittering hue. He opens a cage, immerses his hand inside, snatches a pair of ears, and pulls them out. The overcrowded cages come to a standstill.

He lifts his head up feeling a presence nearing him. His cigarette jerks in his mouth as his thin lips say something. The rabbit looks up toward the sky, the body taut. The old man lets go of the ears and grabs the rabbit by the two back legs. The creature does a somersault, wiggles. The body quivers. The jiggle is short lived. The man clenches his free fist. He looks at the rabbit without a thought, watching it squirm, jerk in his hand. He raises his right fist up and with one whack cracks the rabbit’s neck.

Small of drops of blood drip from the rabbit’s mouth. With his small wooden handled knife, he makes an incision in the rabbit’s belly. “Doesn’t need his pajama anymore” he mumbles, his cigarette trembling. The smooth and tender sound of a soft fabric being torn. He wrenches the skin off and a smoke rises from the bare body. The old man talks, his breath making little puffs of smoke, mixing with the rabbit’s. It is still early and chilly. The sun hides behind a thin coat of gray clouds.

Charlotte walks by the yard. She says hello and watches the man with the curly skin hanging in his hand. She gapes at it and says her father is waiting for her. She runs away.

She carries the caldron to the sink. She limps and her large body wavers like a blob of jelly. She has been limping for years, and she always been fat. Since she was a young woman. No one knows exactly what happened to her. She was helping her father to get his boat on the beach, out of the sea. She held it by a rope hanging at the prowl. The boat still afloat rocked as the waves swelled to break. She tried to hold the boat in place by clinging to the rope tight. A wave lifted the boat up, and as the water withdrew, the raft landed on the top of her foot. The boat washed up on the sandy beach, and her foot was trapped underneath the quill. So goes the story.

She removes the caldron’s lid. A large ephemeral scented cloud of steam escapes. Inside the caldron, the lobsters lay under a red cast, red with a lifeless anger, with eyes staring upward with an empty terror as if imploring a belated clemency. The heat has carved their final expression also in red dye.

            At night, through the strong gusts colliding on the red roof’s tiles, sometimes she hears the dog from the street’s corner howling. When the dog at the bottom of the street howls, everyone in the village falls silent. The wind making the cables clank against the metal boats’ mast, and the tiles rattle on the beams even cease to exist. She lifts her head up, lost in thought and says in her patois: “damned dog, howling death again.” She believes in bad omen: the howling is nature’s way to announce a forthcoming death. She lifts her head up and ponders a short while before resuming her kitchen duty. She does not like the howling and never pauses long to listen to it. She knows someone will die the following day, or the next. Some old codger. She asks who is sick in the village. Everyone has an idea.  No one has the same.

She pours herself a cup of tea in a bowl into which she dips slices of bread covered with butter and cheese. She susurres on the tip of her lips someone’s name, someone who she thinks is ill, someone who has given signs of weakness. The furnace yellow and orange flames glow against her nylon dress. She falls asleep on her chair near the whooshing furnace, hands resting crossed over her large flabby stomach.

A vast hay barn at Charlotte’s house. A battle on a wooden beam. She fights, swings her arms with wide swats, and spins her arms not to lose balance, off the beam. She laughs, laughs, and giggles. She straightens up and her expression becomes serious.  Her lips pout and she takes two steps forward. She closes her eyes and gives a kiss.  

Coming up the cul-de-sac, the woman’s brother comes back from a day at the local pub on the main street. He staggers towards back his house. He stops walking, unable to stand straight. He leans against a long gray brick wall, forehead resting against it the uneven bricks. There he stands without moving, concentrates not to lose his balance. His large hands fumble towards his fly, his numb fingers struggle with the small buttons. Head against the wall, he buttresses his body to distance his short and stout body away from the wall. Forces have deserted him. His weight flattens him against the wall. He loses control and begins urinating against the wall, holding his penis without watching it. The head rolls. He loses his balance and crashes on his shoulders, smearing himself as the freed penis carries on sprinkling all over. A bunch of kids is watching him, with tears of hysterical laughter in their eyes.  They throw stones at him and run away. He places his two hands on the wall and remains without moving. He has fallen asleep, his pants soaked.

            Charlotte carries a suitcase. She crosses the main street with her father, and she wears her best clothes, a gorgeous red dress with white and green flowers. She is a woman now. Beautiful. Her hair is supple and sprawls over her shoulders. She talks like her father and gives handshake like her father. She is even more beautiful when she smile. She is off to university with her suitcase. She does not look around. Without a word, a goodbye, a look around she gets into the bus waiting on the village’s main square. And in the distance, the white billow rolling on the wave’s crest could be seen cavorting.

The old man wakes up. He grabs the tube going down his mouth and yanks on it. But he has no strength. His hand collapses on the pillow next to his waist.

"Look, grand-pa's just woken up."  Harry holds his son in his arm. The boy grins at the gaping man, his blue eyes shining in the faint light. The old man chews on the pipe in his mouth. His twitches his head. He looks around the ceiling, stretches his left arm to catch something up. The hand palpitates.

“See, Grand-pa wants to say hello to you.”

Then the old man pulls on the feeding tubes in his belly.  Harry grabs his father’s hand.  The old man continues gaping. Not a sound comes out of his mouth.  He squeezes his right eye closed. The left one stares straight at no one. It has a glassy veil. It does not respond at Harry who leans over. His shadow darkening the eye. The patient lips voiceless words. The lips flap in the shadow of a rough silver beard and sallow checks. The ventilor's alarm goes on and off. The heartbeat shoots up. 82. The bell curve becomes erratic. 96. 125. 97. Harry presses on the emergency switch hanging on the bed’s railing.

He sees his wife, Cindy, scurrying down the corridor. She looks annoyed. Cindy barges in. Harry looks at her pouncing towards him and seizing the young boy from him.

"How many times do I have to tell you that I don't want my son to be here?

"How did you get here?"

" I don't want my son to see a corpse.

"That's my father, you' re talking about."

"Your father, where has he been the last thirty years?”

"Sam’s got all the right to know his grand-father."

"A grand-father? A bum who spent his whole life traveling and being irresponsible. I don’t want him to be a model for my son." Cindy puts Sam down and inserts his arm into the sleeve of his jacket.

"The man's dying for Christ’s sake."

Sam looks up towards his mother’s tanned face and says he does not like his grand-pa because he stinks. Cindy storms towards the door, dragging Sam by the hand. The kid starts to cry. He has left his cowboy hat and gun on the floor. Cindy comes back running in.

"If he had a normal life, we wouldn’t have to take care of him. He would have had his own insurance. We don’t even make enough for us."

“Not now for crying out loud. The man’s dying.”

But Cindy would not be silenced. Harry sighs and looks outside the window while she unfurls her thoughts. She complains to him it is never the right time to talk about anything. Harry watches the cars driving by. He sees the blue and red sign for the local Safeways beyond of rows of pink rectangle apartments and coconuts trees, and checked the time. He overhears Sam calling his mother in the background. Cindy keeps on burdening him. He feels himself guided towards his father, takes his hand resting on swollen stomach.

She faces him across the bed. “Why don’t you just him tell what it’s all about.  What a great man you are.” Harry looks down at her father, holds his hand, and ignores her. Cindy’s hands are wrapped around the railing.  She waits for an answer and fumes out.

The old man has his eyes open aiming in Harry’s direction. Harry tilts his body sideways to see if his father see him. The eyes do not respond. Harry squeezes his hand.  The skin has a paper-thin quality. He notices when he pinches it the skin has no resiliency. It feels dry, yet, warm and clammy. Harry stares at his father, wanting to talk to him but realizes the old man is no longer aware of anything.  He pats his frail and slender arm. 

            An Asian nurse shows up. She says hello and checked the ventilator, takes the blood pressure, and siphoned the mucus out of the patient’s throat. The old man gags, has spasm, cringes, squeezing his eyes, grimacing. Harry observes the nurse and wonders how long more his father can remain alive.  As the nurse leaves he asks her.  She turns round with a beautiful smile and tells him she does not know he should ask the doctor. She asks him if he would like she call the doctor on duty and Harry shakes his head no. The hiss of the ventilator in the corner and the old dying man’s breathing adjusted to its rhythm.  He comes to the bed and takes the old man’s hand again. It is covered without bandage and bruises from past I.V.

            “I know what you must be thinking.  I know you’ve always been against m marriage. But she’s a good woman. A great mother. She takes great care of the kid . . . We’re just having some problem, that’s all . . . My work isn’t that great. We barely makes ends meet.”

            The old man’s arm shakes.  Harry watches the man on the bed writhing with pain. He asks himself if he really knows this dying man. He feels like a complete stranger.  Once a father and now this body perforated with needles and tubes, unrecognizable. He thinks about his life and the futility of his work. Nothing makes sense.

            Harry picks up the telephone and the bedside table.  It does not dial out. Down the corridor near the waiting room, he finds a public phone.  He dials the same number he has been calling for the last two weeks. An answering machine comes.

            “Hey, Gary, this is your brother.  Still trying to reach you. I’m still at the hospital. Day doesn’t look too good. I don’t think he’s going to last much longer. Please call me at home anytime. Would love to hear from you. I don’t understand why you don’t return my call. So I’m assuming you’ve gone abroad for a shoot . . .” Harry puts slowly the phone down and leaves, the rustling of his acrylic pants down the silent corridor.

            The Sea of Marmara. Kiladi island, off Istanbul. No tide in the Sea of Marmara. On board an old green and red boat with large battered [[tractor]] tires hanging all around the craft’s hull. The Anatolian side of Istanbul is visible, gigantic, stretching for miles on end, behind the stern of the vessel. Visibility is good. Kiladi island bulges out in the distance. The light but steadfast wind makes the Turkish red flag flap against the bright clear sky. At times the seabed makes huge dark shadows where patches of rocks appear like gigantic enigmatic puzzles. The sea ripples and still does not swell.

            Crowded wooden deck benches. No tourist. Only a crowd of Turkish people going to the island for the day. She stares towards the island, her hat keeps her pale face off the sun. Next to her, a veiled woman shakes her head. A black wire runs along her arm, and she holds a walkman in her hand. Another long dark-haired woman wears a black tee-shirt saying “sexy pretty doll” in bright primary colors. Two men are engaged in a heated discussion, sheltered by in the shades of one the two oversized chimneys belching out a thick black smoke where the stench of diesel fume at times swipes across the deck.

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