Poof

       FICTION

Chapter 21
The Man with No Head

“The Zygomaticus major draws the angle of the mouth

backward and upward, as in laughing; whilst the Zygomaticus

minor, being inserted into the outer part of the upper lip and

not into the angle of the mouth, draws it backward, upward,

and outward, and thus gives to the face an expression of

sadness.”

Gray’s Anatomy

HAL MARDEN
Poof

“A pack of those cigarettes. The red pack with the

dancing woman.”

“The Virginians.”

“How much are the Christmas lights?”

“On sale. Five ninety-nine.”

“Do they blink?”

“To beat the band, you bet.”

“One of those. You have nips too.”

“The gin is on sale.”

“Gin comes from berries. It’s a fruit drink.”

“Yes sir. It’s a fruit drink.”

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“I’ll take them.”

“All of them?”

I took out my wallet. He looked at me the way everybody

looked at me today and I was afraid.

“You want ice?” he asked. “A windshield scraper?”

“No thanks.”

“Sunblock is 20% off.”

“Just ring it up.”

I gave him a 20 and a five. He made my change. “Twenty-

two all together. From 25. Twenty-two, -three, -four, five. Happy

Thanksgiving.” He slammed the cash drawer and rolled his eyes. It

made me more scared and angry.

“Do you sell guns?” I asked.

He tore off the receipt and dropped it in the bag.

“Merry Christmas,” I said.

“Happy Thanksgiving. Merry Christmas. Sir.”

I snuck into my apartment and threw the deadbolts. I loosened

my tie, untanged Head, and stood him squarely on his neck in the

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middle of the coffee table.

I looked at him a long time . . . I looked, and waited, until he

said, She’s gone, isn’t she, Joe. You loved her. You want to shoot me because

it’s my fault. You asked that man for a gun.

“It was a joke, Head.” Spilling the bag of nips, lights and

cigarettes I said, “Keep an eye on things for a sec.”

Where are you going?

I got my catheter and sharps from the closet, took off my

pants, and in my shirt and underwear I unraveled the Christmas

lights. I looked for a place to hang them up. It was still November

– too early to buy a Christmas tree – but it seemed the ceiling fan

would be a nice place to hang lights from. I draped the lights in six

loops from the blades of the fan over the table. Plugged in, the lights

looked fine, hanging like that – six loops blinking red and green over

my head. “Do you like them, Head?” I asked.

He was worried. Sure, Joe. You’ll keep me, right? We’re best

friends. You don’t blame me for scaring her?

I got a candle from the kitchen, matches and a paper clip. I lit

the candle and opened a gin nip, twisted the catheter stop in the neck

and dripped candle wax around the neck so it wouldn’t leak. Bending

out the arm of paper clip, I made a hook to hang in the knot of my

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tie, and bending the middle loop of the clip, made a bridle to hang

the nip in. With the catheter looped down my ribs to the needle taped

to my thigh I was ready for a drink.

I opened the pack of cigarettes, lit one and put it to my

blowhole. It was the first cigarette of my life, and the package said it

might kill me, but Carol was gone. (Warning: In America, warnings

are advertisements. This message brought to you by) Puff. . . . The

smoke chimneyed between my shoulders through the lights on the

fan. It was good. I opened the catheter valve and watched the gin

head for my vein.

Some tenants upstairs were having a holiday party. They were

mixing Handel’s Messiah with some Eminem. Nobody in the building

was invited to the party because no one who lived there wanted

other people who lived there to know they lived there. I puffed the

cigarette. “This makes sense,” I told myself.

Go slow, Joe.

My head looked nervous. I looked him over – his soft hair and

eyes that Carol loved, and his throat where it met the surface of the

coffee table. I said to him, “Let’s be honest. She was beautiful, smart,

and funny. You wanted me to fuck her. I wanted to fuck her too. She

wanted me to fuck her. Those are facts. Here are two more facts: I’m

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sorry I didn’t fuck her, and I’m glad I didn’t.”

That doesn’t make sense.

“That’s what I’m getting at. Everybody has a head, and

everybody has a soul. Some are born soulish, like Ghandi, some are

pure heads, like Kant and Tarleton. I was born with no head, you

came into the picture later. What choice did I have?”

“But I’m your head now. Me and Barrett. You have two heads.

So why don’t you listen?”

I took a puff. “I don’t know. My soul drowns you out.”

The gin felt good. It was like a pilot light in my blood.

Thinking I should drink it more often, I tapped cigarette ash in the

saucer. It seemed that Head rolled his eyes, but I must have imagined

it.

“We’re stuck with each other, Head,” I said. “God gave me life.

He gave me memory and DNA, which is the same thing. He put me

off in my mother’s womb. The same god,” I thought, “Who put these

balls down here. Where He could rub them together when He spied a

girl I liked.”

I liked Carol, Joe. I wanted to kiss her breasts. Your soul has no balls.

“Stop thinking about it.”

My head was nuts. My head had no ethics. I had to stop

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thinking about it.

I got up to dance to Handel. The catheter swaying, the lights

swirled and I danced; I took a puff of the cigarette and stopped

dancing. The gin was gone.

“They make these bottles too little.”

I cracked another nip, reloaded the paper clip and checked the

drip. It dripped into my leg. I combed Head’s hair back in my fingers

and chucked his chin. “I wonder how Amos is doing. Remember

Amos, Head? He was the little boy from the church, Carol’s Bible

school student. He was afraid of me. He wanted Carol to be afraid of

me, but she told him that everyone was different in their own way.”

Careful of the table, Joe.

“God, that was sweet of her. To make me an example of what

boys shouldn’t be afraid of. And I’ve been inconsiderate. I feel like

things are falling apart. And it’s dark out. It’s . . . Shit.”

What, Joe?

“Barrett. I forgot Barrett. You and I are having a party, and we

left Barrett alone in the closet. What’s the matter with you?”

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“John?”I lifted him from the darkness of the closet into the

light. “I’m sorry, John. Head was quarreling with me about Carol and

we forgot about you.”

I set John on the table ear to ear with Head, and fell in my

chair to gauge his mood. He looked surly.

“You should have said something, Barrett.”

Like what?

“I know you’ve been listening. Don’t pout, now. You’re here.

Tell me your thoughts.”

Your soul can kiss my ass. Carol had soul.

“Forget Carol!” I jumped and grabbed the empty space where

my head would have been. “Forget her . . . smile! Her lashes! Her

breasts! Her legs from here to the airport!”

They stared, blank and empty.

“Cigarette, John?” I lit a cigarette for Barrett and tucked it in

his lips. The smoke curled by his ear.

Why don’t you try your uncle again, Joe? offered Head. He must

have a phone someplace.

“I’m grateful for the idea. I am. I’ll do it.”

I picked up the phone and punched 411.

“Four one one?” I asked the automated lady. “Westham, Maine.

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Robert Bell. . . .” She came up empty, so then a real woman picked up

the phone, the one who was annoyed with me. “Yes, it’s me again,”

I said. “I am speaking up, ma’am . . . . Robert Bell. . . . I understand.

How about Susan? Is there a Susan Bell in Northam? Or maybe

Westham. How about a Bob Susan or a Susan Bob Bell in Bangor?”

She had no listing for Susan Bob or Bob Susan in Bangor, Blue

Hill or Bath, which she tried for me because it gave her a chance

to vent. Afraid I was driving her nuts, I hung up and lit another

cigarette, and at some point, lost in thought, I slid off the chair.

Flaked on the floor, I salvoed the ceiling with smoke rings. The

gin bottle broke siphon, so I unclipped it and held it up in my hand,

but it was empty, and the floor started to roll. The lights danced.

Upstairs, Handel gave way to Barry White.

And up and down the street Americans were thanking gods

and people for life, health, scratch tickets, free speech and onion dip. I

rolled to my feet, found my chair and sat on it.

“I’m no different from them.” My heart kept breaking. Head,

with his brown hair and pouty lips Carol loved, glared at me.

“You’re still mad.” I said. “You wanted me to make love to her.”

It could have given me feelings.

“Sure. Could have. And she could have torn you off my

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shoulders.”

So what.

He’s right, Joe, said Barrett.

“You too?”

It’s what love is for – to be found out. People lose their heads in love

all the time.

A cheer went up from the apartment across the street. I took

it personally, but people were cheering a first down by the Detroit

Lions. Barrett’s cigarette was about to burn his lip so I swatted it out,

but rather than grateful, he looked belligerent. I needed more juice,

so I got it. Because I had it. I had paid for it.

Around four in the morning, someone slipped in the hall and

cracked his shoulder on the floor. Hauling myself against the wall

and rubbing my shoulder, I asked, “Who’s there?”

The fog had come into the apartment and it was pretty thick.

I waved my fingers around to see what was going on. Through the

fog I could make out empty nip bottles scattered on the floor, then

I saw John Barrett. He was under the kitchen table, his face to the

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baseboard.

“John?” I pushed up. “Hey John. What are you doing?” I

crawled for him under the table.

“What happened, John? What the –– . . .” He was face down

on the linoleum. Someone had stuck nip bottles in his ears. “Who did

this, John?”

You’re drunk, Joe. You messed me up.

“No,” I pulled the nips out of his ears. “No, John. You’re

safe. We’ll get through this.” Cradling him in my arms I shoved

up, rammed the table into the fridge and tacked down the hall. A

voice was telling me that I was out of control. That was ridiculous.

In the parlor, someone had turned on the fan. The Advent lights

were whirling around Head, neck-up on the coffee table – the fan a

centrifuge of blinking lights over Head, under the clattering blades,

looking religious. “Head?”

Fuck you.

“I found Barrett. Here. There you go, John.”

I looked around for my chair. I only had one chair. But whoever

had turned on the fan had brought in more chairs. I landed in one

chair that wasn’t mine, and tried sitting in one that wasn’t either.

It was embarrassing. I had to laugh, because sometimes it’s better

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to make fun of yourself when you’re falling down, and inhuman to

make fun of yourself when you’re getting up. I found my real chair

and sat down and laughed. Head looked pissed off.

“Am I out of control?” I asked him. “Am I drunk?” I was afraid.

What was she doing right now? Crying? Laughing?

You’re shitfaced, Joe. You were bowling nips with Barrett.

“Bowling. With Barrett?”

Bowling him across the floor!

“No. I wouldn’t do that.”

Ass!!!!

Barrett stared at the window. He looked hurt, but he was a

machine. I slumped in the chair.

“I’m hungry. Things would be better if I ate. But I’m not

hungry. Because she’s gone.”

Poof.

My hands poured a drink and lit a Virginian.

My Uncle Bob and Aunt Susan knew who I was and what I

was . . . their nephew with no head. Five pounds four ounces I was

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born. “Pretty strange.” I stood up and paced. “They loved me. You

can’t fake love.” A cheer went up across the street.

Uncle Bob was an honest man. I had not seen him in 15 years

but I could see his weathered smile and slouch in the rocking chair

on the porch . . . the yard with the flagpole. My cousin Holly is

practicing scales by the fireplace. I want to run away; my cousins are

afraid of me. I push up from the chair. “Aunt Susan? Is Bob there?”

She can’t answer me. I’m not there anymore. It’s been 15 years.

Then she answers me.

I’m sorry, Joe. Bob’s gone.

I’m breathing now. “Bob’s gone?”

Your Uncle Bob was hauling out Buttercup for the winter. The boat

was in the lift and Bob was scraping barnacles. The sling broke. Buttercup

crushed Bob. Life’s strange, Joe.

I felt sick. I leaned on the table. That was a mistake: The table

leg gave out. Head and Barrett bounced on the floor and rolled off.

The candle wax streamed across the floor, on fire, so I jumped and

stomped it out.

Shit. My uncle, dead?

He never felt a thing, Joey. He may not even know he’s dead. You

know how stubborn he is.

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I fell back in the chair. “I’ve been trying to find you, Susan. You

and Bob are the best memory I have.”

I looked for you, Joe. I’ve called all over. I remember Bob telling me

about the time he first met you, when you were a boy at the institute. He told

me about all your friends, how much they admired you. You had a friend,

what was his name? The French boy, who was born with his heart outside

his chest.

“Wilhelm.”

Bob told me about Wilhelm and his heart, and the tree to heaven.

Wilhelm was nine. He was fat and beady-eyed. He loved Abba

and liver and onions. He thought the tree above the garden was the

way to heaven, and was always standing under that great tree, its

trunk 20 feet around – a tree so old no one could climb it. There

wasn’t a branch low enough to start. A kid would have to be 20 feet

tall, and Wilhelm, whose heart was born outside his body, stared up

the branches, swearing he would climb it. To the top, where the earth

would look like a tennis ball in his hand. Wilhelm.

One day a cardinal lit on the lowest branch, 50 feet up – a

flame-red cardinal, fat and arrogant. The bird called down to

Wilhelm, Cheer, cheer, cheer, taunting him.

Wilhelm’s heart pounded in the tank on his back, full of hate

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for the bird. I was afraid. Then my uncle came through the garden.

He came up quietly. Listening to the cardinal sing, Bob said, “He

looks like the one that sings in our backyard in Boothbay, Joey. That

damned bird gets around. We’ll go there and you’ll see him in a

shorter tree. In Boothbay – where Wilhelm can beat the shit out of

him.”

Wilhelm laughed.

Uncle Bob was taller than that tree. He could get me to

Boothbay Harbor without making me ashamed. Nobody would give

us any shit – not me, or Wilhelm, or anybody Bob loved. He was in

the National Guard. And he . . . . Whoa. Hold on.

“Head?

“Barrett?”

Fuck off.

“Boothbay Harbor. That’s it! Boothbay Harbor.”

Reaching for the phone, I grabbed the Advent lights to keep

from falling, and yanking the lights snapped off a fan blade. Tangled

in blinking lights, I punched up 2075551212 and lucked into the lady

I had been driving mad, and I promised her that if she gave me the

number of Bob Bell in Boothbay Harbor, she would never hear from

me again.

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She got madder. “You’re all the same. Bastard! ” She passed me

off to the automated lady, who gave me the number.

I wrung the phone.

“Aunt Susan?”

“. . . . . . This is Susan.”

“Susan Bell? In the cottage on the ocean? With Uncle Bob?”

“Who is this?”

“Joseph.”

The phone seized up. Please let this be my aunt. Please – not some

Susan in a cottage on another ocean. “I visited you,”I said, “when I was

10. Maybe you forgot. Uncle Bob brought me . . . .”

“I remember you, Joe.” Her voice broke. “Is it you? Bob and

I have been looking for you for years. The people at the Institute

wouldn’t tell us anything. That German doctor! Where are you? Are

you in the States?”

“In Boston.”

“Boston! Can you come up?”

“Yes.”

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“Joe. You come up here. However you can. Find a way, Joe.

Wear a flag pin. Talk nonsense.”

I laughed. “I know what to do, Aunt Susan.”

“I’m scared for you. I want you to find Mary.”

“Mary? Mary who?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone. It will cost you a fortune. You

know how I am.”

“Is Mary someone I know, Aunt Susan?

“Aunt Susan?”

“You come up, Joe. Mary is just like you. I swear that God

made you for each other.”

“You mean that this Mary . . .”

“Not on the phone, Joe.”

“All right. The color of her eyes?” I said. “The same as mine?”

“Yes.”

“Her hair? Her eating habits?”

“The same.”

“I’m coming, Susan. This morning. I love you.” ■

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