Nocturnes and Other Nocturnes Read online

  Marlyse brushed her lips against Jackson’s, closed her eyes, held her breath as she moved her mouth across his cheek, then exhaled moistly into his ear, whispering in her subtly French-accented voice, “You look so much like him.” Her fingernails dug into the flesh of his forearms, hurting him; but he didn’t show it. She disengaged abruptly and turned away from him without another gesture, without another word – as if he were not a person but a thing.

  He’d never met her before today; he hadn’t even known she existed until very recently. Yet, as she climbed into her small green automobile, the back seat stuffed with the boxes he’d helped her carry down from what used to be her and Luke’s condo, he felt his heart break; before that moment, he had believed that expression was only metaphorical. It was a painful physical experience, a cavernous ache that, right then, he was convinced could never be mended.

  Jackson wanted Marlyse. But he knew, too, that his desire was not really for her, his brother’s petite émigrée with long, flowing dark hair; no, he yearned for intimate knowledge of his brother’s life. Nevertheless, the fantasy unspooled in Jackson’s mind. He ripped off her thin dress, revealing that she wore nothing beneath. Reaching between her legs, he cupped her tiny ass and hoisted her over his shoulder. He threw her on the hood of the car, pushed apart her thighs, and violently explored her cunt and anus with his lips, tongue, and teeth. The sound of the departing car’s engine jarred him out of his erotic daydream before it got any further.

  Jackson wanted to be disgusted at himself, but instead he felt alive, raw, masculine. He was a tender lover – too gentle, according to his ex-wife. Even his taste in porn ran to nothing more risqué than full nudes posing coyly. He’d never had such a brutal, animalistic urge toward a woman before. The fantasy, and especially the thrilling intensity with which its images and sensations still roiled within him, perturbed his sense of identity. Loath to diminish the moment with self-indulgent introspection, Jackson did not question this newfound dichotomy.

  He reached into his pants pocket and took out his new set of keys. He turned around and made his way up to his recently deceased brother’s condo.

  Tableau 2: The View from the Inside

  The condo’s top floor was divided into two rooms: a large bedroom dominated by a king-size bed, with a bookcase that had been partially gutted by Marlyse (not that Jackson cared, he’d never been a reader) and an armchair positioned to take maximum advantage of the brightness that flooded from the skylight; and a second room that had already been completely emptied – the smell of fresh paint wafted from its bare and spotless walls. Holding on to the railing at the top of the stairs, Jackson scanned the floor below, an open-concept loft area on the walls of which hung Luke’s paintings. Jackson’s older brother had been a mildly popular artist but a successful set designer. Jackson had followed his career, grateful for the internet, which made it easier to stalk his sibling from the distance Luke had stubbornly refused to bridge.

  Jackson walked down the stairs and noticed a thick, well-thumbed notebook on the long table facing the couch. It hadn’t been there earlier, when he’d helped Marlyse move out her last remaining possessions. She must have left it there for him. Jackson sat on the couch and picked up the book.

  The cover was black and bare, but the first page revealed what it was, in bold letters written in marker: LUKE’S DIARY. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to read its contents. He hadn’t seen Luke in more than twenty years, since his older brother had left home at the age of eighteen. Their parents, with Jackson’s help, had planned a huge surprise birthday party, inviting both family and friends of Luke’s, but Luke never showed up. His girlfriend, Natasha, was supposed to bring him, but instead they both failed to show.

  The next day, both sets of parents had planned to go to the police station to file a joint report. But a postcard arrived in the mail, signed by Luke and Natasha. It was terse: “Goodbye. Good riddance.”

  Natasha came back six months later, broke, heartbroken, and desperate. Her parents refused to take her in, but Jackson’s parents offered her Luke’s old room in exchange for her help around the house. She rarely emerged from the refuge of her room, never made any noise or trouble, spent much of her time reading and writing. Soon, she was preparing most of the meals; she was a fantastic cook, while neither of Jackson’s parents had ever shown any skill in the kitchen. Jackson’s parents were too timid to ask after Luke, but he pestered her. But all she’d tell him was that Luke was okay, not to worry about him, but that he was a selfish bastard who was unable to care about anyone but himself and that they were all better off without him. Next autumn, she went away to school. They never saw her again, but annually she sent the family a postcard for the New Year.

  Jackson never understood what had motivated his older brother to sever all ties with the family. Their parents were dull, yes, but they’d always been caring. They were good people. He’d heard enough horror stories from friends to understand how fortunate he and Luke had been.

  Facing the couch, two paintings of a seashore hung on the wall: the same view at dawn and at dusk. Jackson got up to examine his brother’s other works. All of them had something to do with water. But Jackson knew that already. He’d read reviews of Luke’s gallery showings. Whenever he could manage it, he’d even drive to Chicago, where his brother had lived since fleeing the family, to view Luke’s new paintings, but he’d avoided premiere nights. He didn’t want to cause a scene, even inadvertently. Luke had never responded to any of the letters Jackson had sent, nor to any of the messages he’d left on his voicemail.

  The first time Jackson had gone to one of Luke’s shows, he’d offered to bring his parents, but they refused, panic flashing across their faces. He never troubled them with that again.

  Jackson returned to the couch and opened his brother’s diary. Half an hour later, he put it down, disappointed. Much of it was written in an illegible scrawl, and even the parts he could make out mentioned people he’d never heard of and contexts he could not understand. The diary offered him no insight into the life of his brother.

  Why had Luke left him anything? Despite their shared childhood, they had been estranged for so long. And yet, this condo now belonged to him, mortgage-free, as did everything Marlyse had left behind. He also owned the rights to Luke’s works.

  It was as if he’d stepped into another life, another reality. None of this felt real. He had yet to inform his parents of Luke’s early death.

  He stood again in front of the diptych. There were no people in the scenes – just the beach, the waves, the sky, and the sea. The pictures radiated a palpable yearning, and for an instant Jackson intuited something profound about his brother, but when he tried to articulate it the insight dissipated, as if it had been nothing but a mirage.

  Dead

  My dead brother insists that we stop using his alive name. His mommy asks, “What should we call you, then?”

  He smiles, his mouth open wide, the gap in his teeth looking too adorable. Last week, he lost his first baby tooth. I want to rush over and hug him so I can absorb all that cuteness. And I want to smell him, because he still has a trace of baby smell, even at five years old. “I’m dead. Call me Dead.”

  But he isn’t. Not yet. It takes seven years to be declared dead, and he’s only been missing for a few days. We humour him, though.

  ~

  The mommies and daddies let me sit in when the police explain what happened on my brother’s first day in kindergarten. I can tell the detectives expect me to be sent out of the room.

  First they ask who everyone is. Daddy Kent says, “We share the house. We’re like one big family.” That’s not a lie. They make it look like Mommy Jenny is with Daddy Kent, and Mommy Tara with Daddy Neal. They call it fudging the truth. Sometimes it’s simpler that way.

  Less than an hour after class started, the police tell us, the teacher discovered a heap of clothes. There was a bit of blood on the shirt. She did a quick headcount and realized she was one chi
ld short. She took attendance, and of course my brother was the missing one.

  The other kids told the police that my brother had lost a tooth, and that explained the blood.

  Ms Collingswood hadn’t noticed, but there were so many kids to pay attention to.

  Neither the teacher nor any of the children remembered anyone being in the classroom besides themselves. Neither the teacher nor any of the children noticed how or when my brother disappeared.

  One of the detectives says, “Did you get a ransom note?”

  The other one asks, “Is there anyone you know who would have any reason to take him?”

  “Are you pressing charges for negligence against the school and the teacher?”

  No to all of the above.

  They ask to see his room. They look around, but there’s nothing to find.

  “If you hear anything, call us.”

  “We’ll do everything we can to return your son to you.”

  Finally, they leave.

  Dead has already told us a different story.

  ~

  Curled up on Mommy Jenny’s pillow, Dead is taking an afternoon nap. He looks so tiny nestled in the mommies and daddies’ big bed, as if he were still a little baby. The rest of us are standing in the doorway, admiring him. He’s so peaceful. So beautiful. So fragile.

  Mommy Jenny whispers, “Nothing must ever hurt him again.”

  Even as a baby, when he was still alive, my brother was so sensitive to everything. If someone lashed out in anger – at anyone – he would either cry uncontrollably or withdraw completely, his eyes wide with shock and fear. We had to learn never to have temper tantrums and never to scream at each other. We learned to really communicate. We did it for him, but it was a good thing. My brother taught us to be better people.

  He taught me to be a better person.

  Once, when I was little, I was furious at the mommies and daddies because they didn’t get me this stupid toy, and I got so mad. I was so stupid. I made everyone angry, and it all turned into a big fight with lots of yelling. And then we heard a loud, horrible scream – only a short burst, but it was the most terrifying noise I’d ever heard. The sound of a baby being tortured. That’s the image that flashed into my mind. We stopped fighting and rushed to the crib. My baby brother’s face was rigid with fear. He breathed in short bursts, like a broken piston. Mommy Jenny barely touched him, and he screamed again.

  The mommies and daddies murmured tensely to each other.

  I was so scared. I hated myself for what I’d done to my brother. I filled my heart with my love for him, and I singsonged his name.

  The mommies and daddies stopped talking. They listened to me and watched the baby.

  After a few minutes, he made a little baby noise. A normal noise. I continued my song, and his face relaxed. He drooled. His eyes closed. He drooled some more, and his breathing calmed as he slept.

  The mommies and daddies each kissed me on the head as they left the room. I sang to my brother the whole time he napped. When he woke up, he smiled at me. I climbed into the crib, squeezed in next to him, and hugged him. There were tears in my eyes as I whispered, “I’ll never hurt you again. Ever.”

  It’s time to renew my vow. I say, “I promise never to hurt my brother.”

  The mommies and the daddies stare at me forever, then they nod to each other, and then turn to look at Dead sleeping on their bed.

  Mommy Tara says, “I promise never to hurt Dead.”

  Daddy Neal says, “I promise never to hurt Dead.”

  Daddy Kent says, “I promise never to hurt Dead.”

  Mommy Jenny sheds a tear. “I promise never to hurt my son.”

  Gently, I climb on the bed. I’m too old for afternoon naps. I cuddle Dead. I close my eyes.

  ~

  Everyone is dressed in black. The two daddies. The two mommies. Me. Except Dead. Dead isn’t wearing any clothes at all.

  Dead pees in a plant pot. A big cactus. His little wee-wee is funny- looking. Dead reminds me of those water fountains with statues of pissing cherubs. His pee is colourless, almost odourless, just like water.

  We all laugh.

  The doorbell rings. Dead is done peeing, so he disappears.

  We all remove the smiles from our faces. We try to look sad. It’s been three months since my brother vanished. My mommy opens the door. Seeing everyone’s grim expressions, I start giggling. Daddy Kent glares at me, and I bury my face in my hands.

  Uncle Jerry walks in. His big SUV can seat everyone, so he’s driving us. The five of us (Dead isn’t coming) could have fit into our own car, but Uncle Jerry insisted: “You shouldn’t have to drive to the ceremony.” The mommies and daddies said, “Okay,” because it’s best not to make a fuss.

  Uncle Jerry kneels down next to me. “Oh, Lilly!” He takes me in his arms and hugs me. “You loved him so much, eh? It’s okay to cry.”

  I peek at the mommies and daddies, and they all look relieved. Daddy Neal winks at me.

  Daddy Neal sits up front; Uncle Jerry’s his brother. The two mommies climb in the middle seat, with Daddy Kent squeezed between them, holding hands with both of them. I sit alone in the back seat. Actually, I lie down. I take up the whole seat. I close my eyes and pretend that we’re flying, that the car is a private luxury jet. The steady rumble of the SUV becomes the hum of the plane. I’m flying. Flying! Flying to a heaven made to order for my brother. Dead’s perfect world. I want to be there with him, in that place where no-one is ever mean.

  Someone grabs my hand. Immediately, I know it’s Dead. Those tiny hands, spongy like marshmallows. Still naked, Dead climbs on top of me and rests his head on my chest. I wrap him in my arms. His soft hair tickles my chin.

  Dead’s mommy turns to see what’s going on in the back seat. Dead isn’t supposed to be here. But she chuckles. What all of us want is to make Dead happy. Daddy Kent turns, too. And then my mommy. They nod to each other. Mommy mouths to me, “I love you.”

  Uncle Jerry says, “Is Lilly alright? What’s going on back there?”

  Daddy Kent says, “Nothing. Nothing at all.” Meanwhile, Dead’s mommy stretches her arm and rests her fingertips on Dead’s hair.

  Later, Daddy Kent says in a voice that’s a bit too loud, “We’re almost there.”

  I nudge Dead, and he slides off me. He slips under the seat, out of sight.

  By now, Dead is presumed dead, even though legally he’s still only a missing person. Today, the entire extended family is commemorating him. For closure, they say. It wasn’t our idea. But it was simpler to go along and get it over with. At the ceremony, the aunts and uncles and grandparents all want me to say a few words.

  I’m nine years old, but today they all try so hard to treat me like an adult. Why now? The aunts and uncles and grandparents never treat me like a real person. Why isn’t a child a real person? The mommies and the daddies don’t think like that. They’ve always treated me and my brother like real people. Today, though, I wish they’d all treat me like a kid, not like a real person. A real person is listened to, and I have nothing to say to these people. They’ve never listened before; why should I suddenly want to speak to them today?

  I don’t want to be here with all these people who pretend to know him but don’t. I want to be home and play with Dead.

  Dead should be in Uncle Jerry’s car. Dead should have stayed home. He doesn’t even like these people.

  Instead, he’s under the table, naked, hidden by the thick white cloth. No-one noticed him sneaking into the reception hall. His head is nestled on my feet. I don’t want to move and disturb him.

  Grandma Diane, whose cheeks are purple with makeup, is the most insistent. “Say something, Lilly. It’s okay if you cry. Say something in his honour.”

  I give my mommy a pleading glare, and she steps in.

  “Lilly was closer to him than anyone. Please let her deal with his passing in her own way.”

  I reach over and squeeze her hand. I’m glad Mommy Tara is my mot
her.

  ~

  Before his death, my brother never wanted to go to family events, or parties, or anything like that. But the mommies and daddies didn’t want to leave him alone back then, and they made him come along with us. The grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins would see him arrive, but then he’d disappear. They wouldn’t even notice. For most adults, kids are almost invisible anyway – unless they make trouble.

  Sometimes, though, my brother would slip out of his clothes. We were always on the lookout for that, so we’d find them first and hide them. We didn’t always succeed. So Aunt Carla or Uncle Rob or Grandpa Paul or Grandma Iris would stumble upon the heap of discarded clothes and get worried. The mommies and daddies would try to reassure them. “It’s a game he plays.” We’d have to search everywhere until we found him, because the aunts and uncles and grandparents would go crazy with worry. “He’s run away!” “He’s been kidnapped!” They didn’t know my brother. Once he’d made it all the way back home; Daddy Kent thought to check and then smuggled him back to the party, and we pretended that he’d been there all along.

  Now that he’s Dead, they leave him at home. Sometimes he comes anyway. I think that’s what grownups call perverse. Last week, I asked Mrs. Lincoln at school what perverse meant, and her face went all red. She muttered and stuttered, and then the bell rang, so I never found out. I should ask my mommy.

  No-one but us ever sees him at those parties. We never know he’s coming along until he surprises us in the car on the way. He enjoys it more now because no-one expects to see him, no- one looks for him, no-one talks to him. He can hide and watch. He can play secret games with me without anyone ever noticing.

  ~

  When he was alive, my brother didn’t play with the other kids in the neighbourhood. Most people, kids and adults both, have a mean streak, and my brother had no defenses against that. The slightest unkind word would shatter him. Once, that jerk Wally Robertson, who’s my age and has been in my class every grade, made fun of my brother’s ears; because of that he refused to come out of the house for a whole month. My brother was only two and half when it happened. He started wearing a hat – a thick woollen tuque with one of those long tassels – and he wouldn’t remove it. Ever. He slept with it on. He took his baths with it.