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    Holy Fools & Other Stories
    Holy Fools & Other Stories
    Holy Fools & Other Stories
    Ebook164 pages2 hours

    Holy Fools & Other Stories

    By Marianne Ackerman

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    About this ebook

    In the novella, Holy Fools, a man on the verge of suicide answers the doorbell and is arrested for a crime he did not commit. His luck changes when he meets Tolstoy, a Lord and author of long books who is doing time for crimes against shareholders. A dark comedy about the game of life. Two stories complete the collection: Nobody Writes to the Professor and Albert Fine.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGuernica Editions Inc
    Release dateSep 1, 2014
    ISBN9781771830034
    Holy Fools & Other Stories

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      Book preview

      Holy Fools & Other Stories - Marianne Ackerman

      HOLY FOOLS

      + 2 STORIES

      MARIANNE ACKERMAN

      GUERNICA - ESSENTIAL PROSE SERIES 116

      TORONTO – BUFFALO – LANCASTER (U.K.)

      2014

      Contents

      Holy Fools

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      No One Writes to the Professor

      Albert Fine

      Notes

      About The Author

      Copyright

      HOLY FOOLS

      ONE

      I, FRANCIS PETER WRIGHT, being of sound mind …

      He stopped typing, looked at the last four words:

      … mind – sound – of – being.

      Hopeless cliché. Mock legalese bordering on juvenilia. This was not how he wanted to be remembered. Anyway, such a claim would surely be weakened by the action he had resolved to undertake immediately after composing the note.

      Reaching for the erase key, he tapped the sixteen characters into oblivion, leaving …

      … Wright.

      From Old English, a common surname meaning worker. As ordinary as the family that had carried it down through the ages to hang upon an only child, a limp legacy, incapable of opening doors or inspiring the triumphal outrage aroused by more provocative names. Banality hiding behind a silent letter, a combination of right and wrong. Deleted, leaving …

      … Peter.

      The world’s most popular religion had been built upon that name and a slab of rock. Since the age of four, it had brought him only shame. A fall day, the far corner of a muddy playground enclosed by chain link fence – he could still see the pattern of incarceration made by sunlight poking through the grid – a thick-chested boy named William had announced to a crowd of fellow children that Peter meant penis. The recess monitor’s back was turned. Everyone was listening. That morning, everyone had heard William’s mother call him Willy. The class bully, shrieking and twirling like a dervish on asphalt had started the chant: Penis! Willy! Penis! In retaliation, William turned his spite on Peter who, fearing the sight of blood, said nothing.

      … Francis

      His superfluous name was gentle. He’d considered making it his only name but … too late now.

      … I,

      He choked. The note crumbled.

      He got up from the table, walked over to the refrigerator, reached down for the door handle.

      Peter Wright was a tall man, six-foot-ten-and-a-half. On the cusp of thirty, painfully thin, his best features buried under a four-season coat of timidity. Over the years, he had shaved two inches off his most distinguishing physical characteristic by adopting a stoop. Knees bent forward, shoulders hunched, frame collapsed like a folding chair. His neck did most of the work, thrusting the head forward. His gaze was permanently downcast. He had acquired the habit of bending over to talk to people, who mostly spoke in murmurs. Words pitched perpendicular, intended for those of common height. Words rarely meant for him.

      The fridge was nearly empty. A ball of bacon wrapped in brown paper. A ripe tomato. A head of iceberg lettuce. Snow had piled up in the tiny freezer box. He reached in, clamped his index finger and thumb around a shred of plastic and pulled out the butt end of a loaf. Whole wheat, three slices, enough for one triple-layer BLT. His last meal.

      Another cliché. Crucial at an execution scene, where it increases the level of pathos, gives greedy spectators concrete evidence upon which to hang their horror.

      The murderer ordered linguini alfredo, foie gras and fresh strawberries.

      Imagination recoils from a heart’s last thump. But who can fail to taste a spoonful of whipped goose liver sliding down the throat of a fellow human being? Surely such a refined palate could not be guilty? It was a meal calculated to deliver an aftertaste of doubt.

      But this was not an execution. It was a private act. No third parties involved. No we. No they.

      He had resolved to fast, out of consideration for others. Coroners. Cops. Innocent bystanders. The idea of strangers coming upon his corpse with a belly full of undigested food had disgusted him. He’d worried that at the moment of crisis he might puke, or worse.

      Now he wondered why he’d worried. The clean-up crew would be well paid for their chosen work. Better than he’d ever been paid in his meagre time spent living.

      The decision to step away from the murmur of existence had followed years of observing the heartless self-absorption of humanity. The decision had come upon him slowly. No inciting incident or crisis. Rather, a slow accumulation of data. Life as experienced by Francis Peter Wright was – in a nutshell – not worth the bother. Over a period of winter months, he had decided there was nothing left in his life that would be more interesting, or necessary, or pressing, than a well-planned exit.

      He took out the ball of bacon. Lit a flame under the frying pan. Dropped two slices of frozen bread into the toaster and placed the third on top. Selected the sharpest knife and a cutting board to protect the countertop. Carefully peeled away a brownish layer of leaf. Exposed the moist core. Ripped it into shreds.

      The toast popped up. He slid the still-frozen slice into an empty slot and pressed the handle down. Placed the other two on top to keep them warm. Turned the bacon strips over. Unscrewed the mayo lid. No reason to be cautious of fat, trans or otherwise.

      The tomato was large, firm, field-smelling. More than enough for one sandwich. There would be leftovers. Waste. A familiar wave of worry. He brushed it off, determined to make this last meal an occasion of liberation, free from the judgement of others.

      He cut a thick slice and was starting a second when the knife slipped. A gash appeared between the thumb and fingers. Blood spurted onto his T-shirt, bubbled over on the pile of lettuce. He dropped the knife, made a fist, hoping to scotch the outpour. A pool grew on the countertop and burst, sending a rivulet of blood dripping into the cutlery drawer and onto the floor.

      He ran to the sink, leaving a trail. Turned on the tap. Stuck his hand under the cold water. When the flow was no longer red, he wrapped a towel around the wound. The stain re-appeared. It doesn’t matter, he told himself. Neither the mess, nor the wound. Less so, the shooting pain. His right hand, the hand of agency, was fine.

      Bacon smoke filled the air. The single slice of toast popped up, pushing the other two into the bloody sink. He threw the toast into the frying pan. Shoved it into the fridge. Turned off the stove. Sat down.

      His laptop screen was dark. A full minute passed. Watching the wall clock tick off the seconds, it occurred to him that life is really a very long time.

      A note would be easier to write if addressed to someone.

      No name came to mind.

      He reached out, touched a key. The screen lit up. Typing with one finger he wrote: To whom it may concern.

      Leaning back, he looked at the words, directed at no one in particular, nevertheless revealing an assumption that someone, an unsuspecting stranger, would be concerned.

      Optimistic. Unacceptable. Delete.

      Mystery is the best strategy. A mysterious death sheds blame on no one and therefore on everyone: precisely his intention.

      He shut down the laptop, slid it into his briefcase. Let the living figure out the password. Other people’s convenience was no longer his problem.

      He unwound the bloody cloth. The flow had stopped. The gash was scarcely an inch long and not deep, yet enough to remind him of why he had chosen a mechanical solution. He had no stomach for long, drawn-out bathtub scenes involving sharp implements and blood.

      His tiny ground-floor apartment on St. Dominique Street imposed limitations. The ceiling was scarcely seven feet from the floor. If he wore a toque and stood up straight, his head touched the plaster. A centuries-old triplex on a once-elegant street, the ground floor had been divided in half. A cheap pressboard partition separated his three back rooms from the front. His entrance was at the back of the building, through a dingy garage full of junk. High ceilings with solid wood beams, he had noted the potential, but resisted. Young hoodlums from the neighbourhood had acquired a key, and sometimes met there to smoke joints. He didn’t want his body discovered by children. By anyone other than seasoned professionals.

      In those early days of planning, his sympathies had remained acute, which is why the whole thing had taken a year. He’d been challenged, stymied, nearly defeated by the wealth of practical details and choices preceding this moment. He had gone as far as purchasing five yards of sturdy hemp from an ecologically friendly garden centre at Marché Centrale. On the same excursion, he picked up a roll of flexible plastic suitable for insulating leaky windows against approaching winter storms. The line between his first flash of excruciating disenchantment with life and this final night had not been a straight one. Rather, a jagged dance of contradiction, manifest by contrary actions, but always practical. Purchasing hanging rope, and insulation. Dropping into the drugstore for a litre of peroxide, and a season’s supply of Echinacea. Taking his best suit to the dry cleaners, after meeting the guy who sold him the gun. Zig Zag. Zig Zag.

      The gun waited on the kitchen table. A smooth oak surface, sturdy legs, he’d picked it up on the street, meticulously stripped away layers of paint, revealing a rich natural wood grain. On the table was a candle, welded to a saucer by a pool of wax. This plan was meant for shadows. Impossible under bright lights. Too risky for the dark.

      A fleshy stench of pig fat lingered in the air. He was no longer hungry. Still, his stomach rumbled, made him edgy. Otherwise, he was calm. He wanted to remain completely relaxed, focused on the moment.

      He looked at the kitchen clock. Eight-forty-five p.m.

      He got up, walked over to the phone. He knew the number by heart. A familiar voice took his order: a medium all-dressed, hold the pepperoni.

      The twelve-inch beeswax taper was now half its original size. He estimated the flame’s life at forty-five minutes. He had purposely chosen a pizza house promising delivery within the half-hour, or the order was free. Allowing three minutes for the transaction at the door and five to seven during which he would eat one, perhaps two slices, he calculated the light would just hold.

      He took down the coin jar, counted out a stack of loonies including tip, placed it on the table by the door and sat down to wait.

      Time ticked by. But the clock was quartz. Tracing the sound to the dripping tap, he remedied the intrusion. The kitchen was a mess. He forced himself to turn away. Sit. Wait.

      Ten minutes ahead of schedule, the doorbell rang. Whisking the gun out of sight, he leapt up, grabbed the handful of coins and flung open the door. Three police officers crowded the entrance, their stony expressions glowing with anticipation. The middle one stepped forward, and brandishing a badge, spoke in a sonorous tone: Francis Peter Wright.

      He did not at first recognize a question.

      Yes, oui, oui, c’est moi, he mumbled, nodding humbly out of habit.

      A litany of accusation followed. One word jumped out.

      Murder.

      His hands went limp. The change fell to the floor.

      The female officer snapped handcuffs onto his wrists. With the tall one in the lead, Peter sandwiched between the other two, they walked through the dingy garage and into the alley where a boy stood under a streetlight holding a flat white box. His pizza.

      Glancing down at the boy, he wanted to say something. An apology, an explanation. But no words came.

      TWO

      THE COMMOTION CAUSED by flashing red lights and cops on their cell phones aroused Mrs. Wannamaker from the stupor of prime time drama. She ran out into the street wearing a bathrobe and slippers. A quietly angry woman, she occupied the front half of the apartment. If Peter made the slightest sound, she would beat the thin wall between them with her cane

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