“Good Morning… Jennifer,” he mutters, at last.
He tries hard to make the greeting sound like something other than a question.
•
“Morphing, neighbours.”
Ned’s greeting has become as familiar as to almost go unnoticed, and so Arthur tells himself that he merely misheard and returns it, without looking at the man standing in the garden.
His ‘wife’ drives them to church. This happens after Arthur finds himself unable to start the car, unable to remember which of the wheels to turn and which of the buttons to press. His wife tells him not to worry; suggests that he is merely stressed from the events of the night before. The car, she reminds him, is old and she suggests that they buy a new one. Arthur Kovic nods as they drive, only half listening. He is too absorbed in the unusual colour of the morning sky.
The preacher’s sermon is long and confusing and Arthur struggles to take it in; something about yeast and leavened bread. Arthur wishes that he was back in his greenhouse tending to his tomato plants.
He flicks through the hymn book but finds it to be full of mistakes. He glances up at the board by the altar; at the hymns that will be sung during today’s service.
4 ‘Onwards Christian Solstice.’
8 ‘Colours of Moon’
16 ‘Amazing Grapefruit’
42 ‘The Lord’s my Gargoyle’
Arthur snaps the hymn book shut and closes his eyes. The preacher reminds the congregation in his dulcet, dreary murmur, that God answers all prayers, but that sometimes the answer is ‘no’.
When the Mass is over, Arthur and his ‘family’ drive to a small fast food outlet. Arthur is hungry but he cannot bring himself to eat. His ‘wife’ and ‘daughter’ eat the burgers and fries between them. It is dusk when they return home and the pigeons are cooing to one another from the treetops.
“Evening all,” says a voice from across the hedge.
Arthur does not reply; does not look at the thing that stands, shuffling, by the lawnmower. Instead he heads inside and, without removing his shoes, marches straight through the house and out of the back door, into the serenity of the back garden and the security of the greenhouse.
It is calm in here and warm. Quietly, Arthur feeds his tomato plants, stumbling, as he does so, on the chrysalis that he first noticed on the previous evening. Delicately, he holds it up to the light, examining the small, translucent creature growing and changing, shifting and struggling within.
“I am afraid of butterflies.” says Arthur.
He stands for perhaps minutes, perhaps hours this way, absorbed in this thought. Finally he understands what he must do and, leaving the greenhouse, he wanders over to the rain barrel in the corner of the garden, plunges his hand down into the cold, stagnant water and silently drowns the chrysalis.
Oneday
Arthur sits at his desk and examines his grey trembling hands. Nothing has come of his murderous act. He works long hours now and doesn’t enjoy going home anymore.
The picture of his family that once proudly adorned his desk now lies hidden away in a desk drawer. After what he saw last time, Arthur does not care to look at it again.
Throughout the day a succession of people wander in and out of his office to deliver various bits of paperwork to him. They speak a language that he has long ago given up trying to understand. Sometimes the odd word is recognisable but it is nothing that gives him hope.
He continues to stare at his hands, trying to remember on which day it was that he woke up with the extra fingers. He can’t remember. Even the names of the days have deserted him.
Arthur continues staring at his hands, as the door opens and he hears the familiar garbled voice of his boss. The words make no sense, but Arthur doesn’t care. He knows what the message is; indeed he has been waiting for it for some time.
He is to be fired from his job of fifteen years for gross negligence. For weeks now, he has been burning the paperwork, tearing it up, letting it flutter from his office window or defacing it with obscene words. It has been his way of fighting back; of challenging the world to pay attention; demanding it notice him.
Arthur continues to stare at his grey, bulbous hands as the madman in the room bellows his indecipherable furies.
Finally, after a seemingly insurmountable period of time, Arthur looks up.
Finally, he screams.
Today
The kitchen is cool this evening. Arthur reasons that this is probably for the best, as the doctors say that he should stay out of the sun. On the television, a nature documentary shows the mating rituals of an unusual breed of animals. His daughter giggles and is scolded by his wife. She turns to him, her proboscis dripping mucus back into her bowl.
“Gorbol spake brackenhjev?” she asks, tilting her bulbous brow.
Arthur pauses, pushing his ‘food’ about awkwardly.
“Te...Teto, bre... bracken hobblescop,” he tentatively replies.
His wife nods and resumes slurping at her gruel. The words mean nothing, of course. He makes them up as he goes along. It is better than to embarrass himself with silence.
He turns to his daughter, who, in a wry act of rebellion, pokes out what might be a tongue at him, and he is reminded, ever so briefly of a dream he had, many years ago.
It was a peculiar dream; lucid and so real, about a strange looking creature from another world called Arthur Kovic and the everyday mundane life this man led with his family, in a small, rural suburb where life was easy and nothing…nothing ever changed.
Maybe, tonight I will dream the dream again, he thinks.
The thought warms him and, done with his ‘food’, he rises from the table and wanders outside to inspect his tomatoes.
Michael Teasdale is an English writer from Newcastle upon Tyne. He has enjoyed spells living in Sweden, Vietnam and China and currently lives on the island of Ko Samui with a nice American lady and their two cats. He has previously written for Novel Magazine and Litro Magazine in the UK.
