Falls (Pt. 16): Alien, All.

38.

Moments passed as heavy fog. Anger rolling in, sex rolling out, and then nothing. Moments with laughter, hours of silence, and then nothing. Hard glances and soft smiles. The house was alien and I was alien. Bev would smile at me and we'd laugh, but they were never genuine. Only careful laughs. Never too loud, never too much. Marie would sit tight next to me sometimes and she would look at me often under furrowed brows and investigating the lines in my face, the way my mouth may curl a bit, or the way I breathed in conversation. She was investigating. She curled tight next to me sometimes at night, but she was a thousand miles away. Bev kept her distance, Marie held her territory. I sat among the ruin and rubble and wondered if war had ever even come. We were alien, all. 

39.

It was noon. I was eating a turkey sandwich and drinking a glass of wine, scribbling thoughts onto a pad of paper and the knock on the front door startled me. I sat for a moment. Not chewing, not breathing. Listening. I wasn't entirely sure I had heard it. Sometimes at night, before sleep I would hear loud bangs and Marie would not hear them and I wondered if I was actually falling asleep and not eating a turkey sandwich and the knock came again. I wished it hadn't and I took my sandwich with me to the front door. I opened it and Eric stood there, The day was bright outside.

"You want to put clothes on?" Eric asked.

I was in boxers and remembered that I was only in boxers. "Sure," I said. "Come in." I opened the door and Eric came in. He was the old business casual, as usual. His hair gelled and short and combed to one side. Younger and far more successful than me. Smarter than me. I wasn't envious, I only hated how he knew it. 

"Smells like fucking pot in here."

"Yeah," I said as I headed into the bedroom.

I threw the cutoff sweat shorts on and a tee shirt and went back out.

"You changed your hair," he said. He was sat on the couch.

 I sat down in a chair.

"Suits you," he said. I had no idea what that meant. "So. James, how'd the summer treat you?"

"Fine, you know. It's nice here."

"You getting work done?"

"A few ideas, you know. Getting there. I've got time. You want a drink?"

"No, no thanks. I'm not really sticking around. I have to drive back to the city."

"You came all the way up here to drive all the way back?"

"I was seeing a client in Montreal. Figured I'd swing in and check on you."

"Oh. All right."

"How's Marie?"

"Fine, good. Enjoying the summer."

"Summer's over."

"Indian summer then."

He nodded. "We're a little worried about you."

"Why's that?" I got up and walked to the kitchen.

"We haven't heard from you in months," his voiced chased after me.

I grabbed my glass of wine and the bottle and went back into the living room and sat down.

"Doesn't mean anything," I said.

"Well, I'm not saying it does, but a young guy with a big wallet for the first time, you know? We've got a bit invested in you, and we just want to keep our investments... secure."

"Thanks, I guess." I drank the last of my glass and poured another. 

"So, what have you been doing?"

"You mean writing-wise?"

"I don't care about your fucking beach habit." He smiled at himself.

I drank from my glass and remembered where my money came from. "I've been writing shorts. About ten or fifteen, in degrees of completion. Trying to nail down a solid idea for the next book."

"We don't want short stories James."

"I know. Doesn't mean I can't write them. I mean, you want me to write, I've just got to write. What comes out, comes out, you know?"

"Oh, yeah, I get it. You're just  a vessel for the work to come through, right James?" He smiled and stood up. "Just keep thinking 'novel...novel...novel', all right? No more short stories. If you're writing, make it a novel. I don't care if you have to take forty short stories and cram them together. In the end, we want a novel. Make sure we get it."

"Sure."

"Sure," he said imitating me. He walked toward the door. "Tell Marie I said hello."

"Bye Eric."

"And clean this fucking place up. It's disgusting." He smiled and waved and I finished my glass as I watched him get into his car and pull out of the driveway and drive off down the road.

There was no novel in me. There was no story in me. I felt very little in me at all. I finished my sandwich and packed a bowl and wondered if this was how things were supposed to go.

40.

"Eric came today," I said to Marie. 

"Oh? What'd he want?"

We were walking to the grocery store for bread and beer. The night had settled in and it was cool. Marie was wearing a hoodie but I had forgotten one and wished I hadn't.

"To check on me. On the book."

"Already? You've got like months still."

"Yeah, they just want to make sure I'm on top of it I guess. Focused."

"Oh. Are you?"

"I don't know. Not really." 

"You're always up there writing though. You've got to be somewhere."

"I mean, sort of. I put Tom's tapes on a lot and write nothing. Little stories and shit. Nothing substantial. I don't know. Maybe that's me now."

"It'll come. It happens."

"Yeah."

I bumped my hand against hers and she didn't hold it. I thought that counted as trying and I stuffed the rejection away somewhere under my ribs and looked in people's windows as we walked.

"We have to start thinking about heading home," I said.

"We have to get bread though."

"No, I mean the city."

"Oh. Yeah."

"I mean, it's going to be time soon."

"I know. I've been thinking about it. I just, I don't know. It's hard making a plan."

"Do you want to find a new place? We can probably sublet the apartment."

"Why?"

"I don't know, a new start?"

"Is that what you think we need?" she asked.

"I just think it would be nice."

"Starting fresh? Something new?"

"Yeah."

"Boring old life, right?"

She was ahead of me a little, but I caught up. "No, I just..."

There was no end to the sentence.

In silence we got bread and beer and I payed and told the cashier to have a good night and Marie pretended she was reading tabloids in line and we walked home in silence and when we were home Marie showered and I pulled myself up to the typewriter. Something had to come out right.