THE YEAR OF OPEN DOORS
JASON DONALD THE ASTRONAUT
ILLUSTRATION BY JOE BAGLOW
I t’s not the face you imagined you would end up with. A plate face with a double chin. All the parts are present and properly joined together but they never tell you anything. You stare and wait and they stare back, waiting, in silence.
‘This is not good,’ you whisper to yourself, and your reflection agrees. This is what the Book calls a ‘negative thought spiral’. You need to get out. Go for a walk. Besides, that’s three job application forms you’ve filled out. You’ve reworked your C.V. and washed the dishes. That’s plenty. That’s more than some people do who actually have jobs. You should be out, enjoying your time off, while you still can, because very soon things are going to change. Like the Book says, ‘Those who project success, attract success.’ You pull your shoulders back and grin at the bathroom mirror forcing yourself to look successful. ‘Things are going to change,’ you say out loud. ‘They are going to change. And when they do, you’ll be busy, so busy, you’ll wish you had all day to flop around on the sofa.’
Reaching for the old cagoule, you hesitate. Instead, you put on the black jacket, the one you wear to interviews, the one that makes you feel slimmer, and start up the street. Outside, frost clings to the shade. Walking quick, with fists clenched in your trouser pockets, your breath steams out ahead of you. The day smells of trampled autumn leaves. The sky is flat, blank. A plastic bag crackles along with the breeze. You have no idea where you’re going, but you feel drawn towards the corner shop, towards chocolate biscuits and flicking through garish magazines. Jogging across the street to avoid a bus, you almost run right into her. ‘Help me,’ she says. ‘It’s burning, so it is.’ You’ve seen this old woman before, drifting around the neighbourhood in her dressing gown and oversized men’s boots. She often swats at invisible insects which pester her face and last week you watched her having an
involved, accusation driven argument with the post box. Today, she’s addressing the entire street. ‘Help. It’s burning. It’s all burning! Help me.’ You lower your head to avoid eye contact and keep walking. She hobbles along the pavement and stops right in front of you. ‘Now you’re walking away. Oh! I need help, son!’
There’s no way round her. You’re close enough to catch the scent of old sweat from her clothes. The wrinkles on her face crumple back revealing watery eyes sensitive to daylight. Hairy lips hunch around her gums, and inside, the mouth is a room without furniture. The mouth speaks.
‘I’m frightened, son. It’s burning! What can
we do? I’m just a wee lassie. I’m on ma own.’
You know you should keep walking. Yet, because you’re weak willed, you speak, ‘What’s burning?’ ‘It’s all burning. What can we do? And she’s got two weans upstairs.’ The old woman points a curved yellow fingernail towards the flats in front of you.
The air above the building is clear and free of
smoke. ‘Come. See,’ she says, turning towards the building. On the back of her head, under a wisp of spider-web hair, you notice two swollen cysts on her scalp: loose lumps the size of testicles. She opens the door to the close and shuffles in, muttering to people only she can see. You follow her into the damp corridor. You warn yourself not to, but you can’t help it.
opening her front door. ‘What can we do?’ she keeps saying. You decide to check her flat too. Maybe she burned her lunch or something. The air inside her flat has a stale warmth with a lingering odour of kitty litter, but no burning.
The kitchen is clear. The stove is off. She hobbles through and switches on the TV. Her living room is furnished with a reclining chair facing the television, two electric heaters – one new and one broken – and an unmade bed. She must sleep through here where it’s warm. The carpet is patterned with great orange and black swirls. Romance novels lie piled on the floor next to her bed. On her pillow is a novel titled: The Flame of Desire. The cover shows a fireman carrying a swooning woman with a torn blouse out of a burning mansion. You stand next to the bed and watch her yelling at a talk show host and his guest. ‘You useless buggers! You should be helping me!’ She slaps the side of the television, hard.
‘Were you making toast?’ you ask, but she
doesn’t hear you.
‘I’m all alone and no one’s helping me.’ She turns to you. ‘I’m frightened. William is away, away to work. There’s nobody but me and I’m just a young lassie.’ ‘Who is William?’ you ask. ‘He’s away at work!’ she says, shaking her head. ‘He’s never coming back, you know. Never, never, never! William’s away. Far away at work.’
You pat the armchair. ‘You’re ok, why don’t
‘Do you smell it, son? What can we do? It’s you sit down.’
burning!’
The stairway smells of wet cardboard, possibly smoke. If there are children upstairs you need to help. You bound up the stairs three at a time. On the first landing you’re faced with two doors. One deep breath through your nose reveals... nothing. You knock on the first door. No answer. The door is cool. The other door tells the same story. You race up to the second floor and knock on both doors. ‘Hello,’ you call through each letterbox, but no one’s home. Are you sure that’s smoke you can smell? Cigarette stubs litter the corner of the landing. Probably just kids, sneaking up the stairs for a quick fag. Back downstairs you notice the old woman
‘But what will I do when the fires come? I can’t do anything.’ To demonstrate her point she spreads her arms and gazes down at her knees. For a second the two of you stand, staring at her short, frail body. ‘Thank God above you came, son. I’ll make tea,’ she says, moving towards the kitchen. ‘Ma William used to love tea, so he did.’
You rub your forehead knowing she’ll keep you here for hours if she can. ‘No tea for me thanks, I have to go.’ You speak to her loud and slow, the same way you give tourists directions. She turns, blinks, and starts crying. ‘No, no, no. Please don’t cry. It’s ok. You’re ok,’ you say patting her shoulder. ‘I’ll have
26 THE LIST 22 Jul–5 Aug 2010