Epilog: Dream the Last

 

Epilog: Dream the Last

 

“Everything that exists in the Universe

is the fruit of Chance and Necessity.”

 

-Democritus

 

In which Frank Sleeps.

 

Middle of January. This picture, out of the window of the dining room: snow rolling over the frozen prairie. The dullest of skies, as white as the world below—no horizon except for the odd ink blots of black-spruce copses and the fading grey tarmac of the frosted highway, rolling south into oblivion. A world inside of a cheap snow globe, but sapped of all magic, color, and fantasy. Bleak and persistent. Remorseless, even.

Looking north, from the master bedroom, same thing.

Same thing in every direction, light years, forever.

Maybe, two thousand miles below, somewhere in Mexico's interior, under a sandy, orange sun, bare-armed gauchos were dying and slaying each other in the blurring heat—drug deals gone sour, murder for sport, revenge, retribution, honor, whatever—but such a place didn't seem like it could possibly be real. In perfect fairness, those Mexicans probably didn't believe in a sub-arctic hell called Manitoba, either. In this place, men lived longer, statistically, but they died cold. They died miserable and without honor. Or so it seemed to Frank Burczyk, on this day, cloaked under the spell of winter's doom.

Discord and Pisimatum were in the west, in the past. Mother Dora was dead for real (again) and buried beside Piotr Francis at Pharsalia (again, again).

Bad old days, left far behind.

 

 

The wife was gone to town, the dog was acting badly, and he had the day, the whole day, the whole house, to himself. Wind howling through the cracks around the door-frame, not a voice within earshot other than his own rambling internal monolog and the odd whimper from the pooch. At times like these, Frank knew he could get right down on himself—especially in bygone times—but he was doing his damnedest to kindle new light inside of himself and keep it burning.

Something like...

Something like...

He picked up his dream journal and flipped to the last recorded entry, which he'd written just two weeks before the big move to Manitoba—

 

I'm dreaming that I'm old, old, old—as old as all hell.

I don't know what became of Gia. It's always like she's just out of frame.

I'm dreaming that my natural life is done.

It is a life much like my real one. Very similar.

It's getting quiet. I always expected that the end of life would be a dimming affair, that I would be able to say, “It's getting dark,” but it's not getting dark at all. Brighter, in fact—like mechanisms in my eyeballs are opening all the way to let in the most light. The world hasn't looked this way, to me, in twenty years or more. However, like I said, the sound is diminishing.

Ever watch television with the volume turned down?

It's hot. I see butterflies hovering over the grass, flitting, as they do, like yellow stones skipping across the water. Butterflies don't make noise at the best of times. I figure I might have heard the bee that landed on my cheek—a quick, small zipping noise. He's gone already. Didn't stay long.

I don't know what has become of Gia. I remember her in a white summer dress. She was dancing across the lawn, dancing toward the garden. There was talk of salad. Romaine lettuce, and green onions, and spinach, and suey choy, and—what the hell is arugula? And fresh tomatoes. There were a few of those on the window ledge, ripening up.

My life ought to flash before my eyes, like a film show.

I'd like to see me when I went north, when I wasn't quite twenty, to catch whitefish. Thousands upon thousands of pounds of whitefish. Pulled nets for ten hours a day, or more, end of summer, hands wrinkled and froze-up, chilled right through, twisted up like claws. And, back at camp I'd have to hold back my tears as the warmth crept back in—didn't want the old-timers to know I was still soft inside. Three months of that, living out of a log cabin with eight beds and a wood-burning stove. Every meal was fish. Those old-timers drank like villains, and some of them were exactly that.

I saw two men fight, until they were bloodied meat, over a woman that belonged to a whole other fella. Not belonged, of course. You get the idea. These two were killing each other for the love (or honour) of a gal who barely knew either existed. But that's how liquor works.  And men.

It's too quiet. Thought I heard a chainsaw running. Abner, down the road, perhaps. He told me there was a dead birch-tree on his property that needed to come down. I offered to help him with that. I guess he couldn't wait for me. Or maybe I don't hear a chainsaw, at all. Could be a lawnmower. Maybe a leaf-blower, but the trees haven't even begun to turn.

And where's Gia? She could be helping me.

Thinking of when I went east. I tried my hand at mining, near Meskanaw. I ran a jack-leg drill, two thousand feet underground. Three hours to drill off a round, then load it, blast, bolt and screen the ground, muck out the heading, and start all over again, next day. I was sopping wet at the end of every shift, filthy black with nickel dust, clothes and pores impregnated with the shit. Did it for five years, day in and day out. I ran the scoop-tram as well as anyone. Worked harder than the senior men, too. Damned unions. Hard work doesn't count like it should, down there. The fat slobs with the giant lunch-boxes make the best coin.

Came to the surface after that. Met my sweetheart.

I worked at a pulp mill, just briefly, then built trusses. Bigger money in oil, pulling rods. Seems my feet were always itching to move on. They still are. I can feel them wanting to jump up and dance. Gia decided we should take Tango lessons together. I'm glad I relented and went along, finally. Probably shouldn't have been such a curmudgeon about it. I remember that the instructor was a brown lady with a false accent. She tried too hard to sound Italian, or Mexican, or whatever she was pretending to be. Gia said she was from Bosnia.

I think I could Tango if I could stand up.

Somebody said I'd do well in sales. I found my way back into the truss industry. It's all kissing ass, I can tell you. Sucking up and kissing ass and trying to turn a buck. I never cared for it, but I always liked going for lunches and driving the company vehicle. Hardly ever stayed in the office. And we managed to make a living for ourselves. Gia did little jobs, here and there, kept herself busy, managed to squirrel a bit of money away. Built the nest-egg, actually. We wouldn't have been able to buy this place if she hadn't kept the RSP account well fed.

So here I am, on the ground. The birds are busy, up in the tree-tops, I know, but I can no longer hear them.

I'm dreaming that I'm old and I'm dying.

My natural life has run out.

I'm dreaming of this special place.

Now I see her. She is coming toward me.

My Gia, always just out of frame, just out of focus, like she was never really part of this terrible world. Like she was above and beyond it, somehow.

Now she has come to me.

Now it is good. Now I am unafraid.

...

 

[Lacunae]

...

 

[Lacunae]

...

 

[Lacunae]

...

 

 

 

End