Specimen & Other Stories Page 4

  She came and sat near him. She took a bowl from her milk crate and set it on the ground. From the pocket of her dress she took a handful of red berries and dropped them into the bowl. She nudged the bowl in his direction.

  “What kind of berries are these?”

  “Don’t know. I’m not good with names.”

  Stanley tried one. It was sweet and sour with an aftertaste of iron. Not what you’d call a dessert berry, but it seemed nutritious enough. He continued eating them, reflecting that, aside from his breakfast fish, this was the only other thing he’d had for food today.

  “You don’t want any?”

  “I ate some while I was picking.”

  A dull fire grew in Stanley’s belly where the berries coagulated. His testicles felt heavy. A primal drumbeat began in his lower spine. He looked down and saw he had another erection. Good grief, what was going on? Despite his nakedness, he saw no need to cover himself. Out here on the perimeter, we are bone, ejaculate...

  The sky grew dark. The full moon came up. Callie made a small fire.

  “Glass of port and a cigar?” she asked him.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I’m all out of Puerto Fino and Macanudos,” she said, “but I have something just as good.”

  “Bring it on.” This was Stanley’s new motto. If in doubt, try it out.

  “Carpe diem, right?”

  She went into her shelter and came back with a bottle of tequila and a hand-rolled cigarette. She’d taken off her dress and donned a single necklace of small white cowrie shells that looped around her breasts.

  She lit the cigarette. Stanley caught the distinctive whiff of his old friend, ganja-man, whom he’d come to know so well during his brief flirtation with depression seven years ago. They’d remained casual acquaintances since then, and although he never invited ganja-man home, now and again he’d run into him at the party of an acquaintance and they’d have a wonderful time together. Ganja-man always brought out the rebel in him, and inevitably he’d act like an idiot, and say something risqué to the hostess, or grab someone’s ass, and then Martha would have to drag him home, like a bad dog who couldn’t be trusted not to hump the small children of friends.

  They passed the joint back and forth, and toasted the moon and stars with swigs of tequila straight from the bottle. She pointed out Jupiter in the same part of the sky as the moon.

  “It’s fucking beautiful,” said ganja-man through Stanley.

  “On a clear night, I can see Uranus,” she said.

  Stanley doubled up in laughter.

  Callie stood and began to dance. Her body moved like a cobra, her rippled belly undulating, her limbs all moving independently, as bone-less as snakes. As she circled the fire, its light cast shadows of her arms upon her torso, and it looked as if serpents were wrapping themselves around her.

  Stanley had been born with a stick up his ass, so dancing had never come naturally to him, but ganja-man was always up for it, so in a few moments he was on his feet too, circling the fire with Callie, bobbing and weaving and swinging his dick in the moonlight. The fire burned down to embers and still they danced under the light of the moon. Stanley howled like a wolf until he was hoarse, prompting residents in his neighborhood to call their pets in and make 911 calls to report a wild animal, possibly a rabid coyote, on the loose.

  Stanley’s throat was raw. Mas tequila, por favor, cried ganja-man, who never quite knew when to quit and call it a night. He drank from the bottle and danced.

  Time passed. The moon sailed over their heads like a volleyball in slow motion. People came out of the bushes to watch. A guy in a pair of sweatpants and a leather jacket held together with duct tape. A woman wearing nothing but a beach towel. An old man with a fungus on his cheek the size of a muffin. A couple of kids who looked like they’d just run away from prep school. A woman with a nest of hair that might have housed a family of bats.

  The tequila went the rounds until it was finished. More smoke, more dancing, more howling...

  The police showed up. Callie and the others scattered into the bushes, leaving Stanley alone, dancing naked in the moonlight. After a brief struggle, he was handcuffed and led back to Pottery Road and a waiting patrol car.

  Bearing absolutely no identification, not even a set of keys for his house, Stanley’s claim of civil service employment and home ownership in Riverdale was greeted by cop cynicism and outright disbelief. They took him to the Don Jail and put him in a holding cell for the night, where he wrapped himself in a blanket and fell into a restless and hallucinatory sleep.

  In the morning he awoke to the mother of all headaches, vomited some tequila-flavored berry bile into his cell toilet and screamed like Kafka on meth until a jailer came to see what all the fuss was about. After a cup of tea and some burned toast, Stanley was allowed to make a phone call.

  Isabel arrived an hour later with a bathrobe and a pair of sandals. She substantiated Stanley’s identity and fabricated a story for the desk sergeant that her friend suffered from bouts of premature dementia, and sometimes got lost in his own neighborhood. She drove Stanley in her Audi back to his place, where he retrieved the front door key hidden inside a fake stone under the hedge for situations something like this.

  Stanley called in sick, slept for 24 hours and woke up on Thursday with an epiphany. By the end of the week he’d moved all of his personal stuff out of the house on Browning Avenue, across the Don Valley and into Isabel’s place on Hampton Park Crescent.

  On Sunday he met Martha at the airport. On the way home, he pretended to be spontaneous and stopped off in the Distillery District for a late brunch at a decent restaurant where on a crowded terrace he told her he was in love with Isabel and was moving out. He’d thought it would go smoothly but when Martha exploded with fury and assaulted him with a water carafe, he’d been forced to flee for his life, leaving her to pay the bill. Once again, he had to phone Isabel to come fetch him.

  The next week, he engaged a lawyer and began the process of dissembling his former life. In exchange for keeping her hands off his fat government pension, Martha got the house on Browning Avenue and Stanley got peace of mind. Slowly he let the news trickle out to friends and family, and he began to show up publicly hand-in-hand with Isabel, whose oozing sexuality caused a swirl of speculation, envy and recrimination within his social circle.

  A creature of habit, Stanley quickly resumed the routines that had laid the foundation of a successful life. He worked a diligent 8-hour day, which in government circles qualified him as an over-achieving brown-noser. He followed a prudent diet, foregoing fast foods for brown-bag lunches of whole grains, lean meat, fresh veggies and fruits rich with anti-oxidants. And every day he rose at six AM to go for a one-hour jog along the tree-lined streets of Rosedale.

  Except once a month, usually right around the time of the full moon, he went for a run down into the Don Valley, where a wooded trail led to a quiet place on the river...

  ~~~~~~~~~

  Specimen

  The island appeared in the distance, a smear of tan and green between the dark blue sea and the pale blue sky. It looked to be only a dozen miles in length, lying very low on the horizon as if hoping to escape notice.

  Peter Flutterman in a white cotton suit and a straw hat stood on the foredeck, one hand gripping the deck railing as the boat crept up on the island. At his feet were a large suitcase, two portfolio-sized briefcases and a tubular case that looked as though it might contain a fishing rod.

  As the boat approached the landing, a man came down to the end of the dock. He was wearing faded blue pants and a white shirt whose tails hung loose from his belt. A pith helmet sat low on his forehead. He looked to be in his mid-forties, the same age as Peter, although it was hard to judge with a full beard covering so much of his face. In any event, he looked well-preserved, unlike the typical islanders weathered by sun and wind.

  The boat bumped up against the dock. A deckhand slung a rope that slithered snake-like acr
oss the dock. The bearded man picked it up and wrapped it around a capstan. As soon as the boat was secured, the deckhands formed a line and began transferring a series of boxes, barrels and bales from the hold to the dock. From the cabin, the captain waved silently to the bearded man, lighted his pipe and shook out a newspaper to read.

  Peter picked up his tubular case and stepped over the gunwale. The bearded man reached out a hand to steady him as he stepped onto the dock. One of the deckhands added his suitcase and briefcases to the chain of dock-bound items.

  The bearded man embraced Peter. “It’s been a long time, brother.”

  “Walter? Is it really you, with a beard like a pirate?” Peter shook his head in wonder.

  “And what about you, with cheeks like a baby’s bottom?” Walter touched the back of his hand to Peter’s face.

  Peter tried to conceal his embarrassment. He wasn’t used to being hugged and touched, even by his long-lost twin brother. “Where’s your staff? We need help with this luggage.”

  “We’ll manage all right by ourselves.” Walter picked up Peter’s two briefcases, leaving his heavy suitcase where it lay.

  “I’ll need that,” Peter said.

  “My staff will fetch it when they bring up the load of provisions. Let’s go up to the house and get you settled in.”

  They walked up a footpath towards a large house framed by palm trees. Beyond the house was a quadrangle formed by long sheds. As they approached the house, a butterfly gyrated across their path. Peter dropped his case and chased it with his hat but it rose into the air and fluttered into the trees. Peter donned his hat in dismay, feeling foolish he’d been so overcome by excitement that he hadn’t extracted his butterfly net from its case.

  “You needn’t have bothered,” Walter said. “You’ll see dozens more when we go into the jungle. You’ll catch them two at a time.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Of course you do. It’s the only reason you came.”

  “I’d have come anyway. It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other.”

  “I’ve been writing you for years. First time I mention butterflies, you decide to come.”

  “Oh, let’s not start arguing. I’ve barely arrived and we’re at each other’s throats again.”

  “Right. There’ll be time for that later. You’re staying the week, aren’t you?”

  “Hardly any choice, is there? Given the frequency of your supply boat.”

  ~~~

  After dinner, the night came upon them suddenly, like a heavy curtain at the end of a scene. They sat in rattan chairs on either side of a big sturdy table. Dirty dishes were pushed to one side. A bottle of brandy sat on the table, a drink within each man’s reach. Through the open window, a three-quarter moon was visible. Walter smoked a hand-rolled cigarette.

  “Still got that filthy habit, I see,” Peter said.

  “I’ve got a lot of filthy habits.”

  “Whatever your faults, you’re a decent cook. I can’t believe you made this whole meal yourself.”

  “I enjoy cooking.”

  “I can’t imagine doing it all the time, though. Especially not in this heat.”

  “Usually I have a woman do it.”

  “A woman?”

  “Lovely brown-skinned thing, about 20 years old. Taiana.”

  “So where is she?”

  “Vanished.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Ran off. They do that, you know. They get tired of working and they just disappear.”

  “But you’re on an island. She can’t just disappear. She must be out there in the jungle somewhere.”

  “She’ll be back after a week or so.”

  “This happens often?”

  “Once a month, with great regularity.”

  Peter helped himself to more whiskey. He took a sip and cleared his throat. “I don’t know whether this is the right time or not, but I think it needs saying. I hope there’re no hard feelings between us.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “After the will and everything. I mean, it wasn’t my idea that Father left everything to me. You were the one who decided you couldn’t stick around to work the business.”

  “Thick-headed old bugger, he would never take my advice anyway. It was like working for a dictator.” Walter stubbed his cigarette in a saucer.

  “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  “No, it’s all right. I don’t hold you any grudges. I went my own way, and you stayed at home. How he disposed of the estate was his business.”

  “I was afraid you’d still be bitter. To tell you the truth, I was a little worried about coming here alone.”

  “I’ve found peace in what I do.”

  “Hard to imagine, living out here in the middle of nowhere, in charge of forty hardened criminals.”

  “It has its rewards.”

  “Really? What are they?”

  “You’ll see – later in the week.”

  “I never really liked surprises.”

  Walter nodded. “I know.”

  An old clock atop a cabinet in the living room began striking twelve. Peter noticed the tones had no sustain to them, as if they were muffled slightly.

  Peter yawned. “I ought to pack it in. It’s been a very long day.”

  “I’ll see you to your room.”

  They entered a small bedroom containing a single bed, a clothes dresser and a small bedside table. Walter carried a lantern, which threw barred shadows on the walls. A canopy of mosquito netting lay draped over the bed. Walter set the lantern down on the bedside table and opened the window.

  “I keep the windows open for the fresh air. The drawback is the mosquitoes, but the net will protect you.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Peter said.

  Walter opened the drawer of the bedside table and took out a revolver. He spun the cylinder and set the gun atop the table.

  “What’s that for?” Peter said.

  “Snakes. Prisoners. The maid.”

  “Snakes?”

  “Boa constrictors. Sometimes they come into the house, looking for mice.”

  Peter scanned the corners of the room. “Prisoners?”

  “This is a penal colony,” Walter reminded him.

  “And the maid?”

  “This is her room.”

  “Really?”

  Walter went to the door. “Good night. Pleasant dreams.”

  ~~~

  They sat at the breakfast table. Walter was finishing off a fairly large fish. Another fish, complete with head, lay untouched on Peter’s plate. He toyed with a piece of toast.

  “No appetite?” Walter gave him a glance. “Did you sleep all right?”

  “Not really. I had a nightmare.”

  “Probably shouldn’t have eaten so much of that goat cheese last night.”

  “A woman came into my room last night, wearing only a grass skirt.”

  “Couldn’t have been Taiana. She never wears anything after midnight.”

  “She sat on the edge of my bed and put her fingers on my lips,” Peter said. “She told me I was in great danger.”

  “You would be, if you ever let Taiana into bed with you.”

  “She told me you had gone insane.”

  Walter snorted. “She’s a fine one to judge. Once every month she runs off into the bush and lives in a tree.”

  “She said that, every full moon, you go insane and kill somebody.”

  Walter clucked his tongue. “Quite a dream.”

  “It seemed so real.”

  Walter shook his head with amusement. “Look outside. That is reality. The jungle waits for us. Beautiful butterflies. What do you want to do, get out there and add them to your collection, or sit here and relive some cheesy nightmare?”

  ~~~

  Peter, carrying a basket and a butterfly net, walked with Walter, who had a small rucksack slung over his shoulder. They passed through the prison compound, a square courtyard bounded on three s
ides by long low sheds, and on the fourth side by a wall. The doors of the sheds were closed, the windows shuttered.

  “Where are all your prisoners?” Peter asked.

  “They’ll be gone all week. My guards took them to the other end of the island, harvesting pineapples. I didn’t think you’d want to have them around while you’re here.”

  “Still, I was curious.”

  “If you really wanted, we could hike to the other end of the island to see them. But it’s fifteen miles – a full day’s journey. We’d have to camp overnight and come back the next day.”

  “Sounds like an adventure.”

  “Wait and see how you fare today. This might be as much adventure as you can handle.”

  Peter followed Walter along a jungle trail. The trail was barely visible. Now and again Walter swung his machete to clear away vines and undergrowth.

  “Aren’t we close yet?” Peter said. “We’ve been walking for two hours.”

  “You want prize specimens, you’ve got to get off the beaten path.”

  “Frankly, I can’t see a path at all.”

  They emerged into a large clearing on a hillside. At the upper end of the clearing was a 20-foot cliff separating them from higher ground above. In the middle of the clearing was a huge stone head similar in size to those on Easter Island.

  Peter stared in amazement. “What is that?”

  “Piece of local art.”

  “It looks like me, without my glasses.”

  “It’s me – before I grew my beard.”

  “The natives regard you as a god?”

  “It was done by one of my prisoners.”

  “Why’d he make you look so sinister?”

  “Artistic license, I suppose. But then, the prisoner never loves his jailer.”

  Walter walked to the base of the cliff, where the sun cast a deep shadow, and slung his rucksack from shoulder to ground. He stuck his machete in the ground and removed his hat to wipe his face on his sleeve. Peter, still staring at the stone head, followed him into the shade.

  “So this is it,” Walter said.

  “What?”

  “Your hunting ground. Take a look around.”

  Peter set his basket down and began to walk along the perimeter, where many flowers grew. Suddenly the air was filled with a cloud of butterflies. Peter pursued them with his net, capturing several in a few swipes. He came back to where Walter was now seated on the ground, his back against the face of the cliff.