The Smell Is the SameA Story by Joel McCarthyFiction "Where did the scars come from?" Stanley asks, running
a finger along her leg, along the hardened dots of skin that look like some
kind of constellation. "These looks nuts, like you got abducted by aliens
and they left you with this weird pattern. You been abducted?" He grins. "No," she
says, shooing him away. "Well where'd
they come from?" She doesn't answer,
seems to look through him at something beyond the window pane. "You don't want
to say?" "Not
really." "Molly." "What?" "We all have
scars." "How
profound," she says. "I mean, guys
like me do. Jews." She laughs at this.
"Like historically speaking? Scars from your unfortunate past? From
Germany? Egypt?" "Like real scars.
Scars on our c***s. You see?" He shows her. "I don't need a
diagram, thanks." "Do you know what
happens when the Moyle cuts it off?" he says. "Crying and
bleeding, I would assume." "Well, yeah. But
most times, after that, the baby goes into shock from the pain. You lose a fair
amount of skin. You lose a lot of nerves. My uncle was a Moyle." "Did your
uncle... never mind." He lay back on the
bed, reaching for a box of animal crackers, her crackers. "I always
wondered about guys who weren't cut. If like the sex was better for them with
all those nerves they still have." Molly sits up,
searching for her bra. "I was with one guy who wasn't." "Oh yeah?" "His parents were
Russian. He was handsome, tall, not good in bed." "Was it because
he wasn't clipped?" "No, that didn't
bother me. He just couldn't last very long. He'd always leave right after
coming.” "Really? Well,
guess I have been missing out." "He was young,
though. This was high school. That was a long time ago." Stanley clicks his
tongue, pops in another cookie, and his chewing annoys Molly probably more than
it should. "Did he have
anything to do with the scars?" he asks after a while. She stands up, heading
for the bathroom. "No. He liked cars. Maybe he works at a dealership.
Maybe he's a mechanic now." She closes the
bathroom door. Stanley hears the tap open, the scrubbing of a toothbrush,
wondering why she always seems to brush her teeth in solitude. "Are we doing
breakfast?" he asks the closed door. She spits. "No. I
have to visit my sister." "You have a
sister?" "Yes." "When will you be
back?" "When I'm
back," she says. He hears the shower
turn on and so he buckles his belt and retrieves car keys from the empty candy
dish near the front door. "You sure you're
not an alien?" he mumbles, leaving, making sure nothing is left behind. Molly isn't concerned
if Stanley comes around again and she never felt much for him to begin with.
From the first night it was as though they were on different wavelengths. He
talks when she wants to think and he lays indifferent when she feels like
talking. He chews his nails, rat-like, but is fashionable, upbeat, the kind
most women search the dial for, women who aren't her. She is somewhere else,
lost, perhaps sandwiched between two frequencies battling for clarity. This
dawned on Molly after their first night together. Now, at the end of the fifth,
she hopes he realizes it. Molly takes an Ambien
that she finds in her purse, a souvenir from over a year ago. It is the last of
an all but extinct prescription that she'd received from Dr. Gillespie, a
therapist Molly ditched after quitting her job at a now defunct hair salon. It
sticks in her throat and she swallows water from the tap until that feeling
goes away. She wants the way she is currently feeling to go away. The pill
doesn't bring sleep like she wants. It instead starts to expand on something
that was brought up earlier by Stanley.
She wants to get out
of the city today. She merges westbound on the expressway, leaving the phallic
skyline in her mirror. There are more cars on the road than she prefers. It is
Sunday, late morning, a day and a time when most non residences attempt an
escape from the smog. She knows the traffic will let up when she gets where she
is going. Her excuse to Stanley
was a lie. She has no sister and she doesn't know why she made one up for him.
It was enough to get him away, enough so that she could be alone today, on the
road. Today seems like the day to do it, and she can't exactly explain that,
either. It could have been
Stanley and his asking of her scars. It is very plausible. But she thinks
probably that today is the anniversary of something known only to the cosmos,
though not connected to the date or digital clock on the car stereo. It is like
a mood, an outlying urge, a phantom limb calling her from 100 Kilometres west.
She wonders, smiling, if Stanley and the other clipped men of the world feel a
similar calling for their discarded foreskins. Of course, she knows this isn't
the same. This is something that belongs only to her. Her father worked hard
days and slept much less than he should have. He was a quarryman, and that was
all that was there to define him. He didn't enjoy discussing the work at home,
but somehow never seemed to cease working. His hands were small and always dry,
always hard. Molly's hands are the same minus a few less calluses, plus the
faint aroma of coconut moisturizer. Her mother delivered
mail in a small brown sedan packed to its felt ceilings each morning with other
people's business. She kept a handful of hard candy in the cup holder, and on
days when Molly stayed home from school because of snow or holiday, she would
help with the route, picking away at the cup holder until only gold wrappers
remained. Her mother had strawberry blonde hair that she'd given to Molly,
though no one in the city knows this. Molly arrives off a
gravel road. The property looks almost as she remembered, but smaller, the huge
satellite dish at the side of the house missing. The apple tree in the front
yard is gone. She wonders if the new owners uprooted it because of the wasps
that congregated over its fallen braeburns during late summer. She doesn't know these
people and doesn't care about them. She doesn't consider the house theirs, even
now, despite what any legal documents say to the contrary. It will always
belong to her. The mailbox is perched
at the end of the long gravel driveway. There are no cars parked here except
Molly's blue Toyota. She can see junk mail pouring out of the box's mouth, and
she picks up a flyer advertising a sale that ended yesterday. The mail has been
collecting for at least a few days, she thinks. Maybe they are on vacation,
maybe just visiting someone out of town. Somehow, this doesn't surprise her. Molly's first instinct
is to go around the side of the garage where there is a door. It is the door
she would use after staying out too late, a door that never squeaked, and it never
woke her parents. It is the door that allowed her to go out into the blackness
of the property at night, sprawling and silent, coyotes rambling in the
distance, some closer than others. She never felt scared in the darkness. To
her it always seemed an extension of the house itself. It squeaks now, but is
open, unlocked, and the smell of the garage is there and reeking of memory
despite being filled with whatever foreign objects the owners have left there
now. She waits in the mouth of the darkened space and listens. Maybe this was far
enough. Maybe it was fun to drive out here and be alone for a while, but now
things are getting heavier, uncontrollable. The smell. The smell is the same. A
little further. The light switch is
not on the wall to her right like she remembers, so she takes a few steps
forward, something brushing her face. It is a length of dangling string that
she pulls, and the garage is suddenly illuminated. It looks similar, but
cleaner. The floors have been painted, but there is still no drywall, which has
preserved the smell of moist concrete, settled dust, the smell of the past.
Perhaps it is just the Ambien, she thinks, but doubts it. There is no car here.
This takes her inside. She enters the living room, shoes wiped but left on, and it is
all wrong. Nothing is placed the same. The walls are yellow, not forest green,
and have been hijacked by floral patterns that clash for dominance of the space
with leopard print lampshades, a cream chesterfield, orange throw pillows. The
carpet is gone, transmogrified into faux hardwood, the smell of pine cleaner
and plug in air fresheners. She is on her guard as
she walks through the place, checking over her shoulder often, the worry
increasing, reality closing in. The bathroom yields
more panic. She’d hoped to see the aquatic wallpaper lining the upper crest of
the walls with its purple and turquoise shells fanning out like a peacock’s
tail and seeming to dance with the flickering vanity bulbs around the mirror.
Everything is gone now, moved away, torn out of existence. And she yearns to
see those animated shells, and she knows now that the house itself is a shell,
one with its meat and significance ripped out, discarded. But is it really? The basement is where
she needs to go. Judging by the state of the garage, she believes the new
inhabitants have left it the way it was then, the way it should be left
forever. The door leading to the basement is closed, but behind it is hope,
maybe some justification as to why she has come. Her descent down there
brings more of the smell, and it is so much more here, filling her head with
fragmented memories she thought long forgotten. Could it be left untouched? If
she flicks the light on, will it all be there? The Christmas tree in the far
corner, left up year-round. Her mother’s broken down Singer, neglected for so
long that it seemed an offering to the spiders and silverfish. Her father’s
tool chest with the lock not quite intact, filled with wrenches, bolts, a
humble collection of Penthouse and Hustler. Again, the lights ruin
it all, making it disappear. There is hope, though. Like the garage, there is
not drywall fixed to the bare studs, except of course near the back, where her
father had started work. She is relieved the new inhabitants haven’t picked up
where he had left off. They’ve instead used the space to store items that have
no place anywhere else in the house. They have no place in her life, either. The smell, she takes
it in. It is her favourite smell, and she cannot explain precisely what it is.
All she knows is that it comes from the house, has always been here, and she
has longed to let it back inside her head. At the far end is the
fireplace, one built of concrete and smooth stones that jut out slightly. She’d
always thought they looked like the ostrich eggs the Chapman’s had on their
farm three properties over. One in particular looks different from the rest. It
has an orange glow about it, and this is no accident. Molly remembered coating
it long ago using a water colour paint kit that she’d received in her stocking.
She did it knowing that her father, who built the fireplace to half completion,
would one day see the stone and reprimand her for it. The day never came, and
to this day her stone remains orange and the fireplace unfinished. She kneels before it,
letting her hands caress it’s smooth surface. Her breathing has quickened, and
sweat is gathering along her lower back as she bends. It takes two stern tugs
before the stone comes free of the concrete, and she sets it down beside her, one
half painted orange, the other grey. She remembers it taking much longer for
her to unlock the stone from its socket, but her hands were smaller then. The socket goes deeper
than the length of the stone, and this is also of her doing. The day she first
discovered the loose stone, she used her father’s chisel to free it, and then
to dig further back into the concrete. What came of that was this, her secret
place, a place that her parents or anyone in the city never knew a thing about.
She reaches a hand in,
feeling that the contents are still here. The first thing she brings into the
light is a sugar packet, the logo a winking king of spades. Immediately she
remembers where it has come from, the refreshment table along the back wall of
Andrew’s Funeral Home, the place where she last saw her father. She never
walked up to the casket like her mother had instructed. She had heard her
cousins talking about touching the body’s hand, how it was cold, how he looked
like a doll or something that her father never resembled when he was alive and
a quarryman. For this reason, Molly stayed at the back of the room, under the
table draped with her grandmother’s Irish linens. She remembered reaching a
hand up, feeling the bowl of packets, stealing one for herself. It was her way
of remembering him because she knew there wasn’t a lot else that she could do. She dips back into the
secret place, finding more. The next item she doesn’t remember stashing away,
but of course she must have because it is here now. She’d made mention of its
origins earlier that morning without even knowing she would find it today. It
is an opened Sheik wrapper, the purple lustre of the thing shining against the
light above her. It belonged to the boy with the Russian parents, her uncut
suitor, her first time. He had left it on her bed after it was over and she had
been transformed into the type of girl that her neighbour Shirley Mayfield
called, “a total s**t-bag.” Molly remembers it was only a few months after that
when Shirley herself was inducted into the club of s**t-bags by an eager
Douglass Fletcher, who lived on the ranch across from her house. There is something
else in the hole and it could be the reason why she has come back. It’s strange
to her why she kept such a thing. It doesn’t seem to fit with any of the other
keepsakes. She doesn’t know why it is here, why she kept it, or how to explain
its significance to anyone. She feels it at the very back of the hole, and
begins dragging it out into the light. It has yellowed but is
still intact, sitting like a misshapen a bowl in her palm. It is smaller than
she remembers, but when she rolls up her pant leg to look at the scars, she
sees that it is indeed the perfect size. She is about to prove this, press it
to her leg, something she did every night until moving out of the house for
good. Someone interrupts her. “I’m calling the
police,” says a girl, standing at the base the stairs, a cordless phone in her
hand. She is young, black, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, her hair flat
ironed and shining against the burning bulb above her. Molly
is frozen, unable to believe someone is actually there. “Did
you hear what I said?” Molly
nods slowly. “Please,” she whispers. “Who
are you? What are you doing in this house? What do you think you’re doing?” Molly
can tell the girl is terrified, and tries her best to stay calm. “Please,”
she says again, louder this time. “I’m not... I’m not here to cause trouble.
I’m not robbing the place. I just...” The
girl watchers her, waiting. “You what?” “I
just came back... to get something. This used to be my house. I used to live here.
I grew up here.” “What
have you got there? That belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Comber, whatever you’re
holding.” Molly
looks at what is in her hand. “No,” she says. “This is mine. This is from when
I lived here. It’s old.” “I
don’t believe you. I have to call the cops.” “Wait,”
Molly says, rising slowly. “I can prove it to you. Please don’t call the
police. I’m not here for a bad reason. I’m just... I don’t know. Let me prove
it to you, OK?” The
girl stands there, the phone gripped tight in her hand, but turned off. She
looks guilty. Molly thinks she must be responsible for leaving the side door
unlocked. “Are
you a crazy person?” the girl asks, her voice trembling. “Well...”
Molly starts, smiling a little. “That’s a tough one to answer. I came for
something. This. And you might think I’m crazy for wanting it, but it’s mine,
really.” “What
is it?” “It’s...
it’s Squire. It’s part of my dog. It’s where I got these scars from and I’ve
never showed anyone where they came from. Can I... show you?” “I...
I don’t know. I don’t think so.” “Please.
It’s the only way I can prove that it’s mine. That I’m not stealing for these
people--The Combers, right?” Molly is uneasy about saying their name. The
girl doesn’t know why, but she isn’t threatened by this person. She trusts her,
somehow. She is walking towards the fireplace, carefully, to where this strange
woman is. “All right. You can show me, but after that I think you should leave.
You don’t belong here, you know?” “I
know,” Molly says. “I’m
supposed to be looking after the place while they’re gone. I don’t want to
trouble them with a police report and whatever else will happen if I call the
cops. They’re good people. They’re paying me a lot to look after the house
while they’re away.” Molly
nods. “I understand. May I show you?” “Yes...
I guess, sure.” Molly
holds the thing up, letting light fall over it. “It’s... it’s what I dug up
after my dog was buried. His name was Squire. He was a mutt. My dad got him
from a kennel, for free I think. He had bad owners before. One night we were
playing, and I kept shining a flashlight in his face, and he kept trying to
bite at the beam. My mom told not to mess with him for too long, but I couldn’t
stop because it was really funny. At one point I rested the flashlight on my
leg to answer my mom who was calling from downstairs. Squire jumped at the
light, and he bit into my leg.” Molly shows the girl the scars that look like a
constellation, and then holds out the bone. It is the lower portion of a skull,
the jawbone, and it offers a uneven row of pointed canines and molars. They
have yellowed, but are there, intact. Molly takes the bone and places it at the
back of her calf, showing where the teeth punctured her flesh. The
girl watches Molly do this, seeing how the constellation was created. “Squire
was missing some teeth. He had mostly gum on top, you know? But on the bottom
row is what got me. I thought it would never stop bleeding.” There
is a long silence between them as Molly keeps the teeth pressed to her leg. “What
happened to the dog?” the girl asks. Molly
sits down, her back against the fireplace. “My dad killed the dog after it
happened. I went to the hospital with my mother, but my dad stayed back and
killed him. He buried him at the furthest end of the property line, next to a
row of evergreens. When I came back from the hospital, we never talked about
Squire again.” The
girl holds out her hand for the bone, taking it, studying it, running her
finger along the dull teeth. “Why is it here now?” “I
found out where my dad buried Squire. He didn’t ever want me to know, and I
think that’s why he hid it as far back onto the property as he did. But I found
the spot. The grass never grew in the same there, you see. It came in thinner,
always yellow, so I knew. One night, a few years after, I snuck out of the
house with a shovel and dug it up. It was the only part of him that I found.
And I came back today to find it. I’m sorry... I just... I needed to have it
back. I needed to see that it was still behind the stone, where I left it.” The
girl nods, handing the jaw back to Molly. “Looks like it was,” she says.
She
watches Molly’s Toyota pull out of the driveway. It turns right, leaving a clay
coloured cloud in its wake. The girl waters the plants in living room before
leaving, locking the front door, making sure to do the same to the side door this
time. On her way back up the driveway, she notices the junk mail in the box,
telling herself she’ll throw it out when she comes back tomorrow. The Combers
are due back by the weekend. They will never know about what had been left in
their fireplace. They will never know what has been taken back. © 2012 Joel McCarthyReviews
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1 Review Added on December 6, 2012 Last Updated on December 6, 2012 Tags: prose, minimalism, third person, present tense AuthorJoel McCarthyMississauga, CanadaAboutMy name is Joel McCarthy and I write. Some of work has been published in magazines like PRISM International, The Feathertale Review, and Macabre Cadaver. I'll review whatever work I find that is polis.. more..Writing
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