the envelope

I wish I could tell you that the Doorman’s helping me up, but of course he isn’t. He comes over and licks me a few times before I find enough strength to get to my feet.

The light dives at me.

Pain stands up.

As I try to keep balance, the Doorman sways, and I ask him desperately for help. All he can do, however, is sway and stare.

From the corner of my eye, I see something on the floor.

I remember.

The envelope.

It’s fallen from my back, under the kitchen chairs, with all the Doorman hair.

I bend down and pick it up, holding it in my fingers like a kid holds something filthy, like a used hankie.

With the Doorman in tow, I retire to the lounge room and slump gracefully onto the couch. The envelope wavers, mocking its own danger, as if to say, It’s only paper. Only words. It never mentions that the words might be of death or rape or awful, blood-filled duties again.

Or Sophies or Millas, I remind myself.

Either way, we’re sitting on the couch.

The Doorman and me.

Well? he asks, chin on ground.

I know.

It has to be done.

I tear the envelope open and the Ace of Clubs falls out, with a letter.

Dear Ed,

All appears to be going well if you’re reading this. I certainly hope your head isn’t too sore. Undoubtedly, Keith and Daryl mentioned that we’re all quite pleased with your progress. If my instincts serve me well, they probably also let it slip that we know you didn’t kill the man from Edgar Street. Well done. You dealt with the situation in a neat, well-executed manner. Very impressive indeed. Congratulations.

Also, in case you’re wondering, Mr. Edgar Street boarded a train to some old mining town not long ago. I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear of it….

Now some more challenges await.

Clubs are no snack, my son.

The question is, Are you up to it?

Or is that question irrelevant? Surely you weren’t up to the Ace of Diamonds.

But you did it.

Good luck and keep delivering. I’m quite sure you realize your life depends on it.

Goodbye.

Perfect.

Just perfect.

I tremble at the thought of the Ace of Clubs disclosing its intentions. All reason tells me to keep from picking it up. Against all reality, I even envision the Doorman eating it.

The only problem is that I can feel it just beyond my big toe. The damn card is like gravity itself. Like a cross to strap across my back.

It’s in my fingers now.

I hold it.

It’s in my eyes.

I read it.

You know when you do something and realize only a few seconds afterward that you’ve actually done it? That’s what I’ve done now, and as a result, I’m reading the Ace of Clubs, expecting another list of addresses.

I’m wrong.

Typically, it’s not going to be that easy. There are no addresses this time. There’s no uniform to this. There’s nothing to make any part of it secure. Each part is a test, and part of that is in the unexpected.

This time, it’s words.

Only words.

The card reads:

Say a prayer
at the stones of home

 

So could you tell me, please? Could you please tell me what that might mean? At least the addresses were cut-and-dried. The stones of home could be anything. Anywhere. Anybody. How do I find a place that has no face and nothing to point me in the right direction?

The words whisper to me.

The card softly speaks itself in my ear as if recollection should be immediate.

There’s nothing, though.

Only the card, me, and a sleeping dog who gently snores.

Later on I wake up, crumpled on the couch, realizing that I’ve been bleeding again from the back of my head. There’s blood on the couch and rust on my neck. The pain’s back, but not sharp or gashing anymore. Just constant.

The card’s on the coffee table, floating on the dust. Growing among it.

Outside is dark.

The kitchen light is loud.

It deafens me as I walk toward it.

The rusty blood scratches my neck and reaches down my back. I decide on the way that I need a drink, hit the light, and stumble through the dark toward the fridge. At the bottom I find a beer and go back to the lounge room, attempting to drink and be merry. In my case, merry means ignoring the card. I pat the Doorman with my feet, wondering what day and time it is and what might be on TV if I can be bothered getting up to turn it on. Some books sit on the floor. I won’t be reading them.

Something leaks down my back.

My head’s bleeding again.