Borderlands 4 Read online

  Father sitting next to him, putting his fingers in the paint and joining

  Gene in the finger painting—

  (Black sedans pulling up to the house, no sirens but flashing lights on their dashboards. Mother screaming at the door to the house. “Gene, for God’s sake, come inside, please, dear God.” Dad looks around, smiles at Gene. Shamus runs out of the dog house, barking.)

  “It’s not a dream,” Gene said, his voice a croak.

  Kim slid closer to Gene and put a hand on his knee. His legs began to tremble.

  “No, baby, it’s for real,” she said. “Your father, he saw things so clearly. I was sure you’d be so much more like him. For years, I waited for you to understand. Your nightmares, Evelyn and the ones before her, I knew they were all signs. But you just got stuck right on the edge. All you needed was a little push.”

  Father pushing little boy Gene on a swing—

  (Dad calls Shamus to him, holds him by the collar. Gene starts to walk to Dad. Car doors slam. Men in suits and in uniforms stand on the curb and driveway. They have guns in their hands. Gene starts walking towards his father. Dad looks at him, smiles. The smile stops Gene.)

  Kim turned to Art. “Why don’t you and Diane go to your rooms and start cleaning up like I showed you?”

  “Aw, ma,” Art complained, but Diane led him away by the hand.

  Father raking the leaves from the lawn while little Gene held the bag—

  (Men in uniform swarm around the house, flash a piece of paper in front of mother and then pull her into the house. Dad calls Shamus to him, holds him by the collar. A man in a suit comes towards Gene. Gene backs away, turns and heads towards the house, stops as an officer comes out for him. Gene runs to the dog house. He crawls in, turns around and looks out through the opening. Dog hairs tickle his nose. Dog smell curls in his stomach and makes him want to throw up.)

  “How—how—” could you, he wanted to ask.

  “Did I know what you really are?” Kim shifted, straightened her legs, leaned forward. “I read every word written about your father. I fucked the investigating detective on your father’s murders when I was old enough. I got him to talk about the case and show me the files. Then I stole them. You should see the pictures. I have them in albums downstairs. That’s where I got those pages from your father’s diaries.”

  Gene shook his head back and forth. He closed his eyes and tried to cover his ears with his palms.

  Father with little boy Gene on his lap, turning the pages to the family photo album—

  (The men in suits close in on Dad. A uniformed man bursts out of the house. “We found it. The knives, the make-up. He’s the one. Take him, take him.” The men in suits rush Dad. Dad kneels, rubs Shamus’ head. Then he pulls the dog’s jaw up and bites him on the neck. The dog jumps, kicks his legs out, howls. The men try to pull him away.

  Blood is everywhere. On Dad’s face. On the suits. On the men’s faces.

  The men drag Dad away. He still tries to finger the blood on his face, on the faces of the men taking him away. He still tries to paint faces.)

  Kim took his hands and drew them down into her lap. She massaged heat back into his flesh. “I knew you were the one for me. Even as a little kid, you were always the one I wanted. The little boy in the dog house. I knew somewhere deep inside you shared the truth with your father, the truth I wanted to share. I understand, you see? Under the painted face of normality there’s a secret. The truth. The hunger that nobody wants to look at. Mothers, most of all, have to recognize it.

  It’s the only way to stop the selfishness, the materialism. Together we can teach them. Just like your father, Gene. Just like your father.”

  Art and Diane came back complaining about the clean-up. Large white circles traced in red surrounded Art’s eyes, and triangular yellow teeth ringed his lips. Diane’s nose was blackened and served as the anchor for web-like traceries covering her face. They sat next to Gene as Kim continued to talk in a low, husky voice, telling him things about her family he had never heard before. She spoke of the lovers her mother and father brought home when the other was out, the fights, the shopping sprees that were supposed to make everything all right.

  As she spoke, Art and Diane took out eye-liner pencils and began to draw on Gene’s face. Their exhalations filled his lungs, their hands pressed his skin against bone. As they drew, he felt himself falling away from the world, plunging into a dark grave already crowded with his father’s corpse and the bodies of the women he had murdered. There were no more golden memories to grasp.

  Rage burst in him and took hold like fire to dry wood, feeding on lies spread by television and advertising; hypocrisies politicians mouthed; hunger for things and positions and power that seethed in his co-workers and in himself.

  “I know your father’s special way of looking at things didn’t skip a generation, Gene,” Kim said. “I know you’ve only been trapped behind a painted face all these years. Let it go, baby. Set yourself free.

  Come join us.”

  An erection grew in his lap. The fire took hold there, as well.

  His father came out of shadows in a corner of the room. He still wore the grin that had stopped Gene from going to him the day he left. Behind him, his mother appeared, emaciated, eaten by cancer, a shell of flesh.

  From between her feet crawled the first Shamus, his head lolling slightly.

  And behind her stirred the bodies. They had all come to stay.

  Somewhere in his mind his father tucked him in.

  Gene crossed the border.

  “The dog, he never left,” he said.

  Kim came close, studied his eyes. Then she smiled and nodded her head.

  He took an eyeliner pencil from Diane and began tracing the pattern for a painted face on his wife. “Neither did Dad,” he said at last.

  Monotone

  By Lawrence Greenberg

  We always try to make room for stories that need to stretch and play and perhaps break a rule or two. They are a vital component of any creative genre. New Yorker Lawrence Greenberg tells us he has a “useless” Masters degree in telecommunications from NYU, but we have a feeling he prefers it to being an uneducated pinhead. His articles, poetry, reviews, and short fiction have appeared in places as diverse as the Washington Post, Deathport, and The Complete Vampire Companion, and the forthcoming Ghosts.

  Morning. Fog. Thick. Hiding everything. Making everything the same. She liked it. Like this. Settled. Calm. Soothing. An atmosphere of comfort. Knock on the door. Was it? Yes. She came downstairs. Opened the door. No one. Looked around outside. Couldn’t see. Fog too thick. Everything the same. Everywhere the same. Fog. Covering, surrounding everything. She remembered when she was a girl.

  Wanting to melt into it. Blend with it. Merge. Long ago. She remembered.

  Package at her feet. Rectangular. Not large. Not that small. No address. No return address. Picked it up. Heavy. Took it inside. Black paper. Unwrapped. Red paper. Unwrapped. White box. Opened it. Packaging material. Removed it. Something amorphous. Pinkish. No. Flesh colored. She touched it. Smooth. Soft. A trace of dampness.

  Call Jim? No. Don’t disturb him at the office. Should she? Maybe. Maybe not. Too busy. Involved with clients. Busy with all his things. No. The phone rang. She went into the kitchen. Lifted the wall receiver. “Hello?” “Use it well.” Soft voice. Deep. Hung up after the three words.

  What was it? Unknown. Nothing like it. Who called? Unknown. She went back to the foyer. To the package. Looked down into the box. A lump. What was it for? What did it do? Who was it from? Why’d they send it? Unknown. All unknown.

  It couldn’t just sit in the box. Could it? She touched it again. Almost warm. Was it? Soft. Like baby skin. No. Where would she put it? What would she use it for? Decoration? Conversation piece? Who knew? Throw it out? Maybe not. Too strange. Table center piece? Too big. Paperweight? No. Doorstop? Of course not. Bookend? Stop. Getting carried away. Getting silly.

  The phone rang again. B
ack to the kitchen. Picked up the wall receiver again. “Hello?”

  “Hey, babe.”

  “Jim.”

  “Who else? Had to run this morning. All this stuff to do. All these things. You know. Always got a lot to do. All the time. Missed you. Right? Slept okay, huh? How’s things?”

  “Jim, we, ah …”

  “What?”

  “We got a package.”

  “Oh, yeah? From who? Something you ordered?”

  “No, I, ah …”

  “Something wrong, babe?”

  “No. No, nothing. Just”

  “Just what?? C’mon, babe. All these things to do. You know?”

  “Just come home.”

  “Home? Oh, yeah. I knew I called for some reason. Listen, sorry I forgot to tell you. Having dinner with the marketing VP from Pepsi I’ve been working with. Dinner and a show. Going to see ‘Will Rogers’. Yee hah and all that. All American, right? Hey, just like Pepsi. So listen, I won’t be home until 11:30, okay?”

  “Eleven thirty? Are you.”

  “Am I what? Look, babe. Gotta go, okay? Hey, I’ll make it up to you. Really. Good stuff tonight. Right?”

  “Tonight. Oh, yes. Tonight.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I want you to come home. I want you to see this, ah, package. It’s different. Strange.”

  “Strange? You all right? Oh, yeah. I asked you that. Okay. Great. No sweat. Don’t worry, I’ll be home. Later. See it and you later. Hey, sorry, but you know this is important. All this stuff’s important. All these things I gotta do. Okay?”

  “Okay? I don’t know. No. I mean. No. Not okay. No.”

  “No? What’re you talking about? What no? What’s wrong, babe? Huh?”

  “No. No ‘babe’? It’s me. I’m Linda. Remember? Do you remember?”

  “What? What’s wrong with you? What’re you talking about, ‘remember’? What, like I don’t know you? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Jim. No. You don’t. You don’t remember. You forget. You forget. All your things. All the things you have to do. People you have to see. All for you. Always for you. Only you.”

  “Hey, what do you want, babe? I got work to do. Things. Yeah, that’s right. All the things I have to do. People? That’s right. People I have to see. Yeah.”

  “Like that woman tonight? You forget. You forget me. You forget everything. Don’t you?”

  “What? Okay. Now I know there’s something wrong. Isn’t there? Look, forget it. That’s right. I’m saying forget it. I have to go now.”

  “Then go. Just go. Do whatever you have to do. And then—”

  “Then what? Don’t come back? Is that what you’re going to say? Is it? Okay. I won’t. How’s that?”

  He hung up. She hung up. That was it then. And there was a sound. A hum? Something like. Where was it? The back door? She walked there from the kitchen. No. The sound was no louder. No softer. The same. From the dining room?

  Walked over. No. The box. From the box. Went back to the foyer. Yes? Yes. From the box. From the lump. The thing. It was humming. Making a sound. Not exactly a hum. A sound. The same sound. Continuous. Constant. What was this?

  The sound. The same sound. She could feel it. The sound resonated.

  The sound. The same. Constant. Continuous. Low. High. Deep. Soft. Loud. She covered her ears. Still there. The same. Constant. Looked at her watch. Nine-thirty. A.M.

  She picked up the box. Not heavy now. Warm. Was it? It sang to her. For her. Did it? She felt it. The sound. She would get rid of it. Yes. Would she? The sound continued. In the air. Everywhere. Inside her. She carried it. Towards the back door. Stopped. The sound. Constant. Continuous. It sang to her. Inside her. What was it? Deep. Soft. High. Loud. Low. Not human. Angel? No. Who knew? Put it down on the kitchen table. Couldn’t get rid of it. Too. Too different. Too warm. To her. Too much. Too friendly. Was it? Touched it again. Friendly. The song. The sound. Kept her hand on it. In it. Soft. Smooth. A trace of dampness. She felt it. The sound. In the air. Within her. From long ago. Her hand felt good. Held. Like it was held. Being held. Warm. She remembered.

  It calmed her. Soothed her. Made her feel good. Nice. Secure. Comforted. Like she remembered. The way she’d felt. Used to feel. Before. The sound. The song. The hum. Not exactly a hum. Constant. Continuous. Her hand. Warm. She wanted it. Wanted it to be there. For her. Constant. She wanted warmth. Comfort. Security. Her memory. Wanted what it had. What she used to have. Long ago. What it was giving her. What it could give. What could Jim give? What? A house. Car. Furniture. Things. All his things. All the time. His affair. Was there one? Too flip. Facetious. Love. Love? She wanted it. Wanted love. So much. He fucked her. A lot. Liked to fuck. Was it love?

  She cried.

  The lump. The thing. Her tears fell on it. In it. Absorbed. Drawn in. Like a sponge. She cried. More tears. Her tears made it glisten. Shine. Was it love? It sang. It made its sound. Comforting. Her hand felt warm. Secure. Against the smoothness. The softness. She cried. Warmth. Within her. Her need. Her memory. Felt nice. Felt good. Her hand in it felt soft. Smooth. The sound. Constant. Continuous. Her breasts. So nice. Soft. And hard. The sound within her. Flowing. Singing. Resonating. Sighing. Vibrating. She remembered. Long ago. She cried. Her tears. Flowing. Her hand. Love. Warmth. She came. So nice. So loving. Soft. Smooth. The sound. Constant. Continuous. For her. With her. To her. Inside her. Within her. The sound. She came with it. The sound of her desire. Returning. To return.

  The doorbell rang. The door. Someone there. Should she answer it? Wanted to stay. Where she was. So nice. Comforting. The door. She turned. Walked to the door. A man. In uniform. She opened the door.

  “Uh, excuse me, ma’am. This the Linzer residence?”

  “Ah … yes.”

  “Yeah. Great. I believe a package was delivered here?”

  “A … package? Ah … no. No, I don’t think so.?

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I believe we show on our records that you received a package this morning. We’re pretty sure— I mean, I think the package was s’posed to have gone to a different address. I guess we made a mistake. I’m sorry, but I guess I’ll have to take the package with me.” He looked apologetic.

  She didn’t. “We … didn’t get a package this morning. I got up just a little while ago. No package. The mail hasn’t even come yet. You must have made a different kind of mistake than the one you thought. Sorry. No package.” She smiled. Tried to look convincing.

  “Jeez, I could’ve sworn— Uh, what’s that sound?”

  “Sound? What sound?”

  “I hear something. Kind of like a hum. Not quite. Like a woman. An older woman, I think. Singing. Kind of. You don’t hear it, ma’am?”

  “No. Sorry. I don’t hear anything.”

  “Huh. Okay. I’ll let them know the package didn’t get here. Thanks for your help. Sorry to trouble you. Have a good day now.” He left.

  She went back to the kitchen. The box. The thing was still in the box.

  She looked inside. Her hand. Left its imprint. In the thing. Soft outline. She looked at it. It smoothed over as she watched. Imprint gone. But she was there. Her need.

  Memory. In the thing. Within it. She knew it. Felt it. Remembered. She was part of it.

  Its one need.

  She would remove it. Take it out of the box. She reached in with both hands for its underside. Felt her fingers slide under it. Like they were made to be there. She cupped it. Like a huge child. Like the body of a loving man. Lifted it out. It warmed to her touch. Did it? Placed it on the table. Beside the box. The sound.

  Always there. Always with her. Inside her. Like the sound of her heart. Pulsing of her blood. Like her need. Returning. Remembering. Knowing her.

  She looked at it. So simple. Warm. Friendly. It knew her. Was her.

  Part of her. She placed her hand on it again. Both hands. They fit its softness. Its smoothness. Its trace of dampness. It felt so good. So kind. So warm. She wanted it. Wanted t
o know it. Be it. Feel it. It wanted her. Wanted to give to her. She knew it did. Wanted her to return. Wanted her return. Her hands were so smooth. Soft. Her hands. Blending into the thing. The lump. Like clay. Like she was molding clay. Like the clay was molding her. Living clay. The thing breathed. Loving the thing that sang.

  That made its own constant sound. The need to return. Merge. She remembered. Long ago.

  She pushed. Pushed against it. Tried to shape it. Give it her own shape. The shape she wanted it to be. The lump moved between her hands.

  Changed. Singing as it changed shape. Making its constant sound. To her. For her. Its warm sound. She molded it. Gave it features. Nose. Mouth. Eyes. A face. The mouth smiling. The eyes open. Awake. A man’s face? A kind face. A warm face? The smiling mouth sang its constant sound. Was it her face?

  She felt the sound within her begin to move. Inside her. Wanting to come out. Wanting to feel the air. Wanting her return. Her need. Memory. The sound came from her. She began to hum. Not exactly a hum. Continuous. Resonating. With the sound of the thing. Long ago. Her hands were warm. Soft. Smooth. Slightly damp. The sound. Resonating. Constant. Her hands. Moving into the face-thing.

  One on each cheek. In each cheek. Inside it. Up to her wrists. So nice. Warm. Secure. Comforting. Giving. Giving itself. Its one need. Past her wrists. So good. So warm. It wanted her. She wanted its warmth. Felt her own need. To return. So friendly. Its comfort. She felt so nice. So comforted. Up to her elbows. She loved it.

  Its one need. Her desire. Remembering.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The kitchen clock. Two-thirty. P.M. The time. It had gone by so fast. She knew what it was. Love. The comfort. The warmth. So nice. So deep. Her need. Past her elbows. Returning. Long ago. Her face. Against the face-thing. Her breath. Breathing her life into it.

  The pulse of her life. Into its mouth. Its mouth so full of sound. Warmth. She breathed her sound into it. Sang her breath. Moved herself. Her need. Up to her shoulders.