kelly link

 

CARNATION, LILY, LILY, ROSE

 

Dear Mary (if that is your name),

 

I bet you’ll be pretty surprised to hear from me. It really is me, by the way,

although I have to confess at the moment that not only can I not seem to keep

your name straight in my head, Laura? Susie? Odile? but I seem to have forgotten

my own name. I plan to keep trying different combinations, Joe loves Lola, Willy

loves Suki, Henry loves you, sweetie, Georgia?, honeypie, darling. Do any of these seem right to you?

 

All last week I felt like something was going to happen, a sort of bees and ants

feeling. I taught my classes and came home and went to bed, all week waiting for

the thing that was going to happen, and then on Friday I died.

 

One of the things I seem to have misplaced is how, or maybe I mean why. It’s like

the names. I know that we lived together in a house on a hill in a comfortably

mediocre city for nine years, that we didn’t have kids, except once, almost, and that

you’re a terrible cook and so was I, and we ate out whenever we could afford to. I

taught at a good university, Princeton? Berkeley? Notre Dame? I was a good

teacher, and my students liked me. But I can’t remember the name of the street we

lived on, or the author of the last book I read, or your last name which was also my

name, or how I died. It’s funny, Sarah? but the only two names I know for sure are

real are Looly Bellows, the girl who beat me up in fourth grade, and your cat. I’m

not going to put your cat’s name down on paper just yet. 

 

We were going to name the baby Beatrice. I just remembered that. We were going

to name her after your aunt, the one that doesn’t like me. Didn’t like me. Did she

come to the funeral?

 

I’ve been here for 3 days, and I’m trying to pretend that it’s just a vacation, like

when we went to that island in that country. Santorini? Great Britain? The one

with all the cliffs. The one with the hotel with the bunkbeds, and little squares of

pink toilet paper, like handkerchiefs. It had seashells in the window too, didn’t it,

that were transparent like bottle glass? They smelled like bleach? It was a very nice

island. No trees. You said that when you died, you hoped heaven would be an 

island like that. And now I’m dead, and here I am. 

 

This is an island too, I think. There is a beach, and down on the beach is a mailbox

where I’m going to post this letter. Other than the beach, there is the building in

which I sit and write this letter. It seems to be a perfectly pleasant resort hotel with

no other guests, no receptionist, no host, no events coordinator, no bellboy. There

is a television set, very old fashioned, in the hotel lobby. I fiddled the antenna for a

long time, but got no picture. Just static. I tried to make images, people out of the

static. It looked like they were waving at me.

 

My room is on the second floor. It has a sea view. All the rooms here have views of

the sea. There is a desk in my room, and a good supply of plain, waxy white paper

and envelopes in one of the drawers. Laurel? Maria? Gertrude?

 

I haven’t gone out of sight of the hotel yet, Lucille? because I am afraid that it

might not be there when I get back.

 

Yours truly,

 

You know who.

 

The dead man lies on his back on the hotel bed, his hands busy and curious, stroking his body up and down as if it didn’t really belong to him at all. One hand cups his testicles, the other tugs hard at his erect penis. His heels push against the mattress and his eyes are open, and his mouth. He is trying to say someone’s name.

 

Outside, the sky seems much too close, made out of some grey stuff that only grudgingly

allows light through. The dead man has noticed that it never gets any lighter or darker,

but sometimes the air begins to feel heavier, and then stuff falls out of the sky, fist-sized

lumps of whitish-grey doughy matter. It falls until the beach is covered, and immediately

begins to dissolve. The dead man was outside, the first time the sky fell. Now he waits

inside until the beach is clear again. Sometimes he watches television, although the

reception is poor.

 

The sea goes up and back the beach, sucking and curling around the mailbox at high tide. There is something about it that the dead man doesn’t like much. It doesn’t smell like salt the way a sea should. Cara? Jasmine? It smells like wet upholstery, burnt fur.

 

Dear May? April? Ianthe?

 

My room has a bed with thin, limp sheets and an amateurish painting of a

woman sitting under a tree. She has nice breasts, but a peculiar expression on her

face, for a woman in a painting in a hotel room, even in a hotel like this. She

looks disgruntled.

 

I have a bathroom with hot and cold running water, towels and a mirror. I looked

in the mirror for a long time, but I didn’t look familiar. It’s the first time I’ve ever

had a good look at a dead person. I have brown hair, receding at the temples,

brown eyes, and good teeth, white, even and not too large. I have a small mark on

my shoulder, Celeste? where you bit me when we were making love that last time.

Did you somehow realize it would be the last time we made love? Your expression

was sad: also, I seem to recall, angry. I remember your expression now, Eliza? You

glared up at me without blinking and when you came, you said my name, and

although I can’t remember my name, I remember you said it as if you hated me.

We hadn’t made love for a long time.

 

I estimate my height to be about 5’11”, and although I am not unhandsome, I

have an anxious, somewhat fixed expression. This may be due to circumstances.

 

I was wondering if my name was by any chance Roger or Timothy or Charles.

When we went on vacation, I remember there was a similar confusion about

names, although not ours. We were trying to think of one for her, I mean, for

Beatrice. Cara, Jasmine? We wrote them all with long pieces of stick on the beach,

to see how they looked. We started with the plain names, like Jane and Susan and

Laura. We tried practical names like Polly and Meredith and Hope, and then we

became extravagant. We dragged our sticks through the sand and produced entire

families of scowling little girls named Gudrun, Jezebel, Jerusalem, Zedeenya,

Zerilla. How about Looly, I said. I knew a girl named Looly Bellows once. Your

hair was all snarled around your face, stiff with salt. You had about a zillion

freckles. You were laughing so hard you had to prop yourself up with your stick.

You said that sounded like a made-up name.

 

Love,

 

You know who.

 

The dead man is trying to act as if he is really here, in this place. He is trying to act in as normal and appropriate a fashion as is possible. He is trying to be a good tourist. He hasn’t been able to fall asleep in the bed, although he has turned the painting to thewall. He is not sure that the bed is a bed. When his eyes are closed, it doesn’t seem to be a bed. He sleeps on the floor, which seems more floorlike than the bed seems bedlike. He lies on the floor with nothing over him and pretends that he isn’t dead. He pretends that he is in bed with his wife, and dreaming. He makes up a nice dream about a party where he has forgotten everyone’s name. He touches himself. Then he gets up and sees that the white stuff that has fallen out of the sky is dissolving on the beach, little clumps of it heaped around the mailbox like foam.

 

Dear Elspeth? Deborah? Frederica?

 

Things are getting worse. I know that if I could just get your name straight, things

would get better. 

 

I told you that I’m on an island, but I’m not sure that I am. I’m having doubts

about my bed and the hotel. I’m not happy about the sea or the sky either. The

things that have names that I’m sure of, I’m not sure they’re those things, if you

understand what I’m saying, Mallory? I’m not sure I’m still breathing, either. When

I think about it, I do. I only think about it, because it’s too quiet when I’m not.

Did you know, Alison?, that up in those mountains, the Berkshires? the altitude

gets too high, and then real people, live people forget to breathe also? There’s a

name for when they forget. I forget what the name is.

 

But if the bed isn’t a bed, and the beach isn’t a beach, then what are they? When I

look at the horizon, there almost seems to be corners. When I lay down, the

corners on the bed receded like the horizon.

 

Then there is the problem about the mail. Yesterday I simply slipped the letter into

a plain envelope, and slipped the envelope, unaddressed, into the mailbox. This

morning the letter was gone, and when I stuck my hand inside, and then my arm,

the sides of the box were damp and sticky. I inspected the back side, only to

 

discover an open panel. When the tide rises, the mail goes out to sea. So I really

have no idea if you, Pamela? or for that matter, if anyone is reading this letter. 

I tried dragging the mailbox further up the beach. The waves hissed and spit at me,

a wave ran across my foot, cold and furry and black, and I gave up. So I will simply

have to trust the local mail system.

 

Hoping you get this soon,

 

You know who.

 

The dead man goes for a walk along the beach. The sea keeps its distance, but the hotel stays close behind him. He notices that the tide retreats when he walks towards it, which is good. He doesn’t want to get his shoes wet. If he walked out to sea, would it part for him like that guy in the bible? Onan?

He is wearing his second-best suit, the one he wore for interviews and weddings. He figures it’s either the suit that he died in, or else the one that his wife buried him in. He has been wearing it ever since he woke up and found himself on the island, disheveled and sweating, his clothing wrinkled as if he had come a great distance. He takes his suit and his shoes off only when he is in his hotel room. He puts them back on to go outside. He goes for a walk along the beach. His fly is undone.

The little waves slap at the dead man. He can see teeth under that water, in the glassy black walls of the larger waves, the waves farther out to sea. He walks a fair distance, stopping frequently to rest. He tires easily. He keeps to the dunes. His shoulders are hunched, his head down. When the sky begins to change, he turns around. The hotel is right behind him. He doesn’t seem at all surprised to see it there. All the time he has been walking, he has had the feeling that just over the next dune someone is waiting for him. He hopes that maybe it is his wife, but on the other hand, if it were his wife, she’d be dead too, and if she were dead, he could remember her name.

Dear Matilda? Ivy? Alicia?

I picture my letters sailing out to you, over those waves with teeth in them, little white boats. Dear reader, Beryl? Fern? you would like to know how I am so sure these letters are getting to you? I remember that it always used to annoy you, the way I took things for granted. But I’m sure you’re reading this the way that, even though I’m still walking around and breathing (when I remember to), I’m sure I’m dead. I think that these letters are getting to you, mangled, sodden, but still legible. If they arrived the regular way, you probably wouldn’t believe they were from me, anyway.

I remembered a name today, Elvis Presley. He was the singer, right? Blue shoes, kissy fat lips, slickery voice? Dead, right? Like me. Marilyn Monroe too, white dress blowing up like a sail, Gandhi, Abraham Lincoln, Looly Bellows (remember?) who lived next door to me when we were both eleven. She had migraine headaches all through the school year, which made her mean. Nobody liked her, before, when we didn’t know she was sick. She broke my nose because I pulled her wig off one day on a dare. They took a tumor out of her head that was the size of a hen’s egg, but she died anyway.

When I pulled her wig off, she didn’t cry. She had brittle bits of hair tufting out of her scalp, and her face was swollen with fluid, like she’d been stung by bees. She looked so old. She told me that when she was dead, she’d come back and haunt me, and after she died, I pretended that I could see not just her, but whole clusters of fat, pale, hairless ghosts lingering behind trees, swollen and humming like hives. It became a scary fun game I played with my friends. We called the ghosts loolies, and we made up rules that kept us safe from them. A certain kind of walk, a diet of white food�marshmallows, white bread rolled into pellets, and plain white rice. When we got tired of the loolies, we killed them off by decorating her grave with the remains of the powdered donuts and Wonderbread our suspicious mothers at last refused to buy for us.

Are you decorating my grave, Felicity? Gay? Have you forgotten me yet? Have you gotten another cat yet, another lover? or are you still in mourning for me? God, I want you so much, Carnation, Lily? Lily? Rose? It’s the reverse of necrophilia, I suppose�the dead man who wants one last fuck with his wife. But you’re not here, and if you were here, would you go to bed with me?

I write you letters with my right hand, and I do the other thing with my left hand that I used to do with my left hand, ever since I was fourteen, when I didn’t have anything better to do. I seem to recall that when I was fourteen there wasn’t anything better to do. I think about you, I think about touching you, think that you’re touching me, and I see you naked, and you’re glaring at me, and I’m about to shout out your name, and then I come and the name on my lips is the name of some dead person, or some totally made-up name.

Does it bother you, Linda? Donna? Penthesilia? Do you want to know the worst thing? Just a minute ago I was grinding into the pillow, bucking and pushing and pretending it was you, Stacy? under me, sweet fuck, it felt good, just like when I was alive, and when I came, I said, “Beatrice.” And I remembered coming to get you in the hospital after the miscarriage.

There were a lot of things I wanted to say. I mean, neither of us was really sure that we wanted a baby anyway, and part of me, sure, was relieved that I wasn’t going to have to learn how to be a father just yet, but there were still things that I wish I’d said to you. There were a lot of things I wish I’d said to you.

You know who.

The dead man sets out across the interior of the island. At some point after his first expedition, the hotel moved quietly back to its original location, the dead man in his room, looking into the mirror, expression intent, hips tilted against the cool tile. This flesh is dead. It should not rise. It rises. Now the hotel is back beside the mailbox, which is empty when he walks down to check it.

The middle of the island is rocky, barren. There are no trees here, the dead man realizes, feeling relieved. He walks for a short distance�less than two miles, he calculates, before he stands on the opposite shore. Before him is a flat expanse of water, sky folded down over the horizon. When the dead man turns around, he can see his hotel, looking forlorn and abandoned. But when he squints, the shadows on the back veranda waver, becoming a crowd of people, all looking back at him. He has his hands inside his pants, he is touching himself. He takes his hands out of his pants. He turns his back on the shadowy porch.

He walks in the direction opposite to the one chosen the day before. He is going to sneak up on the hotel, which might logically expect him to continue to explore the portion of the island so far unexplored. What he finds is a ring of glassy stones, far up on the beach, driftwood piled inside the ring, charred and black. The ground is trampled all around the fire, as if people have stood there, waiting and pacing. There is something left in tatters and skin on a spit in the center of the campfire, about the size of a cat. The dead man doesn’t look too closely at it.

He walks around the fire. He sees tracks indicating where the people who stood here watching a cat roast, walked away. It would be hard to miss the direction they are taking. The people leave together, rushing untidily up the dune, barefoot and heavy, the imprints of the balls of the foot deep, heels hardly touching the sand at all. They are headed back towards the hotel. He walks back in their footprints, noticing where his own track, doubled over, comes and goes, back to the hotel. Above, in a line parallel to his expedition and to the sea, the crowd has also walked this way. They are walking more carefully now, he pictures them walking more quietly.

His footsteps end. This is where the hotel was waiting for him. The hotel itself has left no mark. The other footprints continue towards the hotel, where it stands now, down by the mailbox. When the dead man gets back to the hotel, the lobby floor is dusted with sand, and the television is on. The reception is slightly improved. But no one is there, although he searches every room. When he stands on the back veranda, staring out over the interior of the island, he imagines he sees a group of people, down beside the far shore, waving at him. The sky begins to fall.

Dear Araminta? Kiki? Lolita? Still doesn’t have the right ring to it, does it? Sukie? Ludmilla? Winifred?

I had that same not-dream about the faculty party again. She was there, only this time you were the one who recognized her, and I was trying to guess her name, who she was. Was she the tall blonde with the nice ass, or the little blonde with short hair who kept her mouth a little open, like she was smiling all the time? That one looked like she knew something I wanted to know, but so did you. Isn’t that funny? I never told you who she was, and now I can’t remember. You probably knew the whole time anyway, even if you didn’t think you did. I’m pretty sure you asked me about that little blond girl, when you were asking.

I keep thinking about the way you looked, that first night we slept together. I’d kissed you properly on the doorstep of your mother’s house, and then, before you went inside, you turned around and gave me such a look. You didn’t need to say anything at all. I waited until your mother turned off all the lights downstairs, and then I climbed over the fence, and up the tree in your backyard, and into your window. You were leaning out of the window, watching me climb, and you took off your shirt so that I could see your breasts, I almost fell out of the tree, and then you took off your jeans and your underwear had the day of the week embroidered on it, Friday? and then you took off your underwear too. You’d bleached the hair on your head white, and then streaked it with blue and red, but the hair on your pubis was black and soft, layered, when I touched it, like feathers. Like fur.

We lay down on your bed, and when I was inside you, you gave me that look again. It wasn’t a frown, but it was almost a frown, like you had expected something different, or else like you were trying to get something just right. And then you smiled and sighed and twisted under me. You lifted up smoothly and strongly like you were going to levitate right off the bed, and I lifted with you like you were carrying me and I almost got you pregnant for the first time. We never were good about birth control, were we, Eliane? Rosemary? And then I heard your mother out in the backyard, right under the elm I’d just climbed, yelling “Tree? Tree?”

I thought she must have seen me climb it. I looked out the window, and saw her directly beneath me, and she had her hands on her hips, and the first thing I noticed was that her breasts were nice, moonlit and plump, pushed up under her dressing gown, fuller than yours, and almost as nice. That was pretty strange, realizing that I was the kind of guy who could have fallen in love with someone after four weeks, really, truly, deeply in love, the forever kind, I already knew, and still notice this girl’s 45 year-old mother’s boobs. That was the second thing I learned. The third thing I saw was that she wasn’t looking back at me. “Tree?” she yelled, one last time, sounding pretty pissed.

So okay, I thought she was crazy. The last thing, the thing I didn’t learn, was about names. It’s taken me a while to figure that out. I’m still not sure what I didn’t learn, Aina? Jewel? Kathleen? but at least I’m willing. I mean, I’m here still, aren’t I?

Wish you were here,

You know who.

At some point, later, the dead man goes down to the mailbox. The water is particularly unwaterlike today. It has a velvety nap to it, like hair. It raises up in almost discernable shapes. It is still afraid of him, but it hates him, hates him, hates him. It never liked him, never. “Fraidy cat, fraidy cat,” the dead man taunts the water. When he goes back to the hotel, the loolies are there. They are watching television in the lobby. They are a lot bigger than he remembers.

Dear Cindy, Cynthia, Cenfenilla,

There are some people here with me now. I’m not sure if I’m in their place�if this place is theirs, or if I brought them here, like luggage. Maybe it’s some of one, some of the other. They’re people, or maybe I should say, a person I used to know when I was little. I think they’ve been watching me for a while, but they’re shy. They don’t talk much.

Hard to introduce yourself, when you don’t know your own name. When I saw them, I was astounded. I sat down on the floor of the lobby, I was that surprised. A wave of emotion came over me so strong, I didn’t recognize it. It might have been grief. It might have been relief. I think it was recognition. They came and stood around me, looking down. “I know you,” I said. “You’re loolies.”

They nodded. Some of them smiled. They are so pale, so fat! When they smile, their eyes disappear in folds of flesh. But they have tiny soft bare feet, like children’s feet. “You’re the dead man,” one said. It had a tiny, soft voice. Then we talked. Half of what they said made no sense at all. They don’t know how I got here. They don’t remember Looly Bellows. They don’t remember dying. They were afraid of me at first, but also curious.

They wanted to know my name. Since I didn’t have one, they tried to find a name that fit me. Walter was put forward, then rejected. I was un-Walter-like. Samuel, also Mike, also Rupert. Quite a few of them liked Alphonse, but I felt no particular leaning towards Alphonse. “Tree,” one of the pinkies said. Tree never liked me very much. I remember your mother standing under the green leaves, which leaned down on bowed branches, dragging the ground like skirts. Oh, it was such a tree! the most beautiful tree I’d ever seen. Halfway up the tree, glaring back at me, was a fat black cat with long white whiskers, and an elegant sheeny bib. You pulled me away. You’d put a t-shirt on. You stood in the window. “I’ll get him,” you said to the woman beneath the tree. “You go back to bed, mom. Come here, Tree.”

Tree walked the branch to the window, the same broad branch that had lifted me up to you. You, Ariadne? Thomasina? plucked him off the sill and then closed the window. When you put him down on the bed, he curled up at the foot, purring. But when I woke up, later, dreaming that I was drowning, he was crouched on my face, his belly heavy as silk against my mouth.

I always thought Tree was a silly name for a cat. He ran out in front of my car, I saw him, you saw me see him, I realized that it would be the last straw�a miscarriage, your husband sleeps with a graduate student, then he runs over your cat�I was trying to swerve, to not hit him. Something tells me I hit him.

I didn’t mean too, sweetheart, love, Pearl? Patsy? Portia?

You know who.

The dead man watches television with the loolies. Soap operas. The loolies know how to get the antenna crooked so that the reception is decent, although the sound does not come in. One of them stands beside the tv to hold it just so. The soap opera is strangely dated, the clothes old-fashioned, the sort the dead man imagines his grandparents wore. The women wear cloche hats, their eyes are heavily made up.

There is a wedding. There is a funeral, also, although it is not clear to the dead man, watching, who the dead man is. Then the characters are walking along a beach. The woman wears a black and white striped bathing costume that covers her modestly, from neck to mid-thigh. The man’s fly is undone. They do not hold hands. There is a buzz of comment from the pinkies. “Too dark,” one says, about the woman. “Still alive,” another says. “Too thin,” one says, indicating the man. “Should eat more. Might blow away in a wind.”

“Out to sea.”

“Out to Tree.” The loolies look at the dead man. The dead man goes to his room. He locks the door. His penis sticks up, hard as a tree. It is pulling him across the room, towards the bed. The man is dead, but his body doesn’t know it yet. His body still thinks that it is alive. He begins to say out loud the names he knows, beautiful names, silly names, improbable names. The loolies creep down the hall. They stand outside his door and listen to the list of names.

Dear Daphne? Proserpine? Rapunzel?

Isn’t there a fairy tale where a little man tries to do this? Guess a woman’s name? I have been making stories up about my death. One death I’ve imagined is when I am walking down to the subway, and then there is a strong wind, and the mobile sculpture by the subway, the one that spins in the wind, lifts up and falls on me. Another death is you and I, we are flying to some other country, Canada? The flight is crowded, and you sit one row ahead of me. There is a crack! and the plane splits in half, like a cracked straw. Your half rises up and my half falls down. You turn and look back at me, I throw out my arms. Wineglasses and newspapers and ribbons of clothes fall up in the air. The sky catches fire. I think maybe I stepped in front of a train. I was riding a bike, and someone opened a car door. I was on a boat and it sank.

This is what I know. I was going somewhere. This is the story that seems the best to me. We made love, you and I, and afterwards you got out of bed and stood there, looking at me. I thought that you had forgiven me, that now we were going to go on with our lives the way they had been before. Bernice? you said. Gloria? Patricia? Jane? Rosemary? Laura? Laura? Harriet? Jocelyn? Nora? Rowena? Anthea?

I got out of bed. I dressed quickly, and left the room. You followed me. Marly? Solange? Karla? Kitty? Soibhan? Marnie? Lynley? Theresa? You said the names staccato, one after the other, like stabs. I didn’t look at you, I grabbed up my car keys, and left the house. You stood in the door, watched me get in the car. Your lips were still moving, but I couldn’t hear. The roof was down.

Tree was in front of the car, and when I saw him, I swerved. I was already going too fast, halfway out of the driveway. I pinned him up against the mailbox, and then the car hit the lilac tree. White petals were raining down. You screamed. It felt like I was flying.

I don’t know if this is how I died. Maybe I died more than once, but it finally took. Here I am. I don’t think this is an island. I think that I am a dead man, stuffed inside a box. When I’m quiet, I can almost hear the other dead men scratching at the walls of their boxes.

Or maybe I’m a ghost. Maybe the waves, which look like fur, are fur, and maybe the water which hisses and spits at me is really a cat, and the cat is a ghost too.

Maybe I’m here to learn something, to do penance. The loolies have forgiven me. Maybe you will too. When the sea comes to my hand, when it purrs at me, I’ll know that you’ve forgiven me for what I did. For leaving you after I did it.

Or maybe I’m a tourist, and I’m stuck on this island with the loolies until it’s time to go home, or until you come here to get me, Poppy? Irene? Dolores? which is why I hope you get this letter.

You know who.

When the sky changes, the loolies go outside. The dead man watches them pick the stuff off the beach. They eat it methodically, chewing it down to a paste. They swallow, and pick up more. The dead man goes outside. He picks up some of the stuff. Angelfood cake? Manna? He smells it. It smells like flowers: like carnations, lilies, like lilies, like roses. He puts some in his mouth. It tastes like nothing at all.