Something of Substance
by Patrick Danner
Darkness then light. That’s how it works. The wrenching back of Harold’s eyes each morning, the intake of light and the instant sensation of feeling again, his body heavy on the couch, remembering that feeling from nights past when she, propped up on her elbow, crow’s feet forming in the corner of her eyes, more prevalent when she washed the make-up out, leaning over him engulfing him in her gaze and…
He sighed, swung his legs clockwise off the couch, fully cognizant of the force it created on his body, rubbed his eyes and straightened up, his boxers coiltangling around his genitals, pulled the heavy yellow afghan off his lap, the weight of it comforting and warm on his thighs and slid his feet into his elk-hid slippers, the lining providing no warmth, but comfort, leathery and softly welcoming so that, if he could say it, Harold would try to compare it to the softness of her voice, allowing the New England accent, terse and calming–
His watch alarm sounded minutes after he woke, the subtle tweeting that accompanied the tings of the hot water heater reminding Harold that it was already 10 a.m., and now Tuesday, and that Lester was due soon with the groceries, inevitably stumbling apishly up the stairs, carrying bags upon bags in his greasy arms, the sweat of his pocked pubescent brow seeping into the brown paper bags causing the edge to wilt–
A door slammed. Clack-boom. Around the corner. Studio. The coldness that permeated from Harold’s frozen fingertips inward now reversed itself, starting from the core of him and crawling step by step outward.
He shuffled, thin arms pulled to bony chest, cool breeze up the legs of his boxers, around the corner to the door, his feet settling again toward the back of their respective slippers, soles moist against elk-hide, now, and a cool breeze caressing the gnarled hairs atop each… but from where? From underneath. A fine grain of elk-hide nestled between his toes and he eyed the space between the floor and the bottom of the door, the faux-brass lining where tile meets carpet, the two-inch gap, now bright, already a few hours past sunrise, and a gap in which at that moment Harold saw it: the motion of light. Shadows cast by swaying curtains. Swore he heard for a brief second the slight wind falling through a gaping window… His face went warm and he took the knob in his hand and startled himself at the sound of the mechanism moving in his grip, the crunch, echoed in the hollowness of the door, a light crunch and rattle of screws and bolts against the thinnest steel and his lungs froze as he turned the knob ever so slowly, listening for a rustling of feet scampering across the filthy blue carpet inside toward the ledge of the bay window, the clap of shoes dropping from the second story to the sidewalk below, but only ever the pained torque of the knob, the faint flatulent squeal as his moist grip slipped on the knob just briefly. The push of the wind against the door as he released it and allowed it to blow backward.
The window agape. The studio empty. An emptiness struck before he turned and saw a vacancy left by a single portrait. One of forty-seven. All original. Disparate. All one woman.
His stomach deflated, immediately knowing precisely which one it was, the emerald green dress, the way her hair, straight and red and clasped back away from her face, the straightness of her lips and their complimented furrows around them, forming into inactive dimples, the impeccably consistent yellow-green eyes, the right one having the yellow cut across the middle and shown best in water color– the arrow, he imagined it, into the bridge of her nose– the one where, as he remembered, he caught the light perfectly… a day when no one would believe the rain for the lack of clouds… where the light seemed to push itself through the window frame voraciously, yes, voraciously, and cling around her neck, cupping her face as he tried to capture it… pale freckled long neck underneath a heart-shaped…
And now vacancy. A blank space from where she had been stolen. Not blank so much as darkened by the lack of light hitting it. He shuffled halfway, to the center of the room, the spot on the wall ingraining itself in his memory and searching for a partner, the darkened blue behind it, the original color of the room, closer to a coral blue instead of what was now the hue of the walls, a grayed Egyptian blue, his throat oscillated opened and closed, unconcerned with the rhythm of his breath, and, as if a sudden ear infection set in and his balance jerked to the right, he staggered left and shuffled toward the vacancy, knocking into his easel, the centerpiece of the near empty room, kicking a leg out from under it and having it collapse like a stunned animal onto the carpet, and the palate, once resting lazily in the canvasless easel, over-turning with near dried reds and oranges, untouched since last week; and the clack-click and collapse of the easel jarred his nervous system, his jaw tightened, and he heard himself gasp the yelp of a mouse, and his lungs held taut in resistance but nearly immediately the threshold broke and he fell into a rhythmic sobbing… and he failed to hear the thrust of soft flesh atop hard bone, shouldering barbarously the front door, the awkward battle-march of oversized feet up the old, creaking steps, or his nephew’s voice, cracking and strained, gruntbreathing a hello.
“I’m here Chickenlegs! Sorry I’m late. I mean, only five minutes.”
Harold left the door open to the studio and a grayed winter sunrise cast his shadow–now elongated, popping forward and back with each wrenching, emotional jerk–to the doorway, to his view and he heard Lester stomping about the tiles, the weight of each step exacerbated by the boy’s posture, hunched and miserable like a soldier shamed and blind and in retreat.
Lester had to pee. Looked for Chickenlegs. Walked away toward the meats. Stared down the dual brown bags. Slackjawed. Stared. The pressure of his bladder pushed outward. Wondered if this is what a hernia felt like. Swooned momentarily over the meats. Bratwurst and ground beef. Two huge sirloin steaks and six pork chops. In his mind saw himself with the plate in front of him. Still steaming. The smoky aroma, faintly still of blood, stroking his nose with the soft hands of a woman. The grease of the bratwurst running into his nascent neck-beard and solidifying. Sitting there until Thursday when mom would make him shower. Warmth of the water as he jumped in dry. Glasses still on. Avoiding soap or shampoo but letting it rush the grease from his body. Through pimple-pocked shoulders and down his back. Heat from water to flesh. Chills then smooth. The cold dissipating from outward in. Naked flesh. Like a woman. He reached toward the bags and squeezed against the doughy bread. Cracklerack of brown bag crumbled in his ears. The resistance like a breast. Blushed alone in the kitchen. Heard Chickenlegs shuffleuffle ‘cross the carpet. Stop. Uncle H.?
Harold, inside, felt himself sigh the name Sally, Sally, between seizing breaths, grayed bangs falling into his eyes, being defined more clearly to him as the sun climbed further, further toward winter zenith, realizing now how they obfuscated the view of them, the portraits, going from most recent to oldest, bay window to door, some crooked and collecting dust– he never dusted them–; he heard it in the floorboards when the ape Lester stamped heavy on his heels erratically to and fro and he felt him stare at the back of his head, judging his pantlessness, his legs pale and gaunt like the faces of nauseous funeral attendees, his thin frame and unkempt hair.
“Hah hah! Glad to see you still have Chickenlegs!”
Harold stayed silent.
“Are you ok Unc–”
“Gone,” he whispered.
Lester arched an arm to the back of his head. Dug nails beneath greasy hair. Scratched. “What’s gone?”
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