A Plea for Constant Motion

By Paul Carlucci

Quietly atmospheric and darkly foreboding, A Plea for Constant Motion is an ominous, and occasionally unnerving, new work of fiction by award-winning author Paul Carlucci

Penetrating and visceral, yet always offset by small moments of tenderness and humour, A Plea for Constant Motion is a powerful examination of the innate desire in everyone to change their lives and strive for something better.

Two couples share a disastrous dinner after their children are killed in a botched kidnapping overseas. A teacher with a passion for cartography orchestrates a bizarre apology after intentionally hitting a student. Desperate to be friends, a man ignores his neighbour’s strange behaviour to the peril of himself and others. A young girl babysits for a family friend, dimly aware that her presence is required for more than just childcare.

Dexterously divided into two parts and a surreal intermission, the characters in these stories find themselves confronted by situations that leave them either struggling to escape or firmly rooted in place. Paul Carlucci’s formidable work is by turns familiar and disquieting, sober and surreal, a stark and carefully crafted examination of the human condition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Astoria
• Release date: Jan 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781487000127

Paul Carlucci

Paul Carlucci’s first collection of short fiction,The Secret Life of Fission, won the 2013 Danuta Gleed Literary Award. His second collection, A Plea for Constant Motion, was published to critical acclaim in 2017. His stories have also been published in numerous magazines and journals, including Malahat Review, subTerrain, Fiddlehead, and New Quarterly. A former journalist, Carlucci has lived across Canada — including eighteen months in Hay River, NWT, while writing The High-Rise in Fort Fierce — as well as Ghana and Zambia. He now resides in Ottawa.

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A Plea for Constant Motion

Stories

Paul Carlucci

Astoria logo

Copyright © 2017 Paul Carlucci

Published in Canada in 2017 by House of Anansi Press Inc.

www.houseofanansi.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Distribution of this electronic edition via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal. Please do not participate in electronic piracy of copyrighted material; purchase only authorized electronic editions. We appreciate your support of the author’s rights.All of the events and characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Carlucci, Paul, author

A plea for constant motion / Paul Carlucci.

Short stories.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-4870-0011-0 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-4870-0012-7 (epub)

I. Title.

PS8605.A7556P54 2017 C813’.6 C2016-900887-8

C2016-900888-6

Cover design: Alysia Shewchuk

Canada Council for the Arts and Ontario Arts Council logos

We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

To Jess and Hanky.

To Nicole, Bryan, and Caileigh.

To my mom and dad.

CONTENTS

ACT I

My New Best Friend in Exile

An Improved Map of the World

Even Still

Rag

These Rats Have a Job To Do

Burger Life Fitness

INTERMISSION

Dream of a Better Self

ACT II

Hippos

Behind Both Sides of a Door

Shadowboxing

Way Down the Mercy Hole

The Black Dogs Are Death

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

ACT I

My New Best Friend in Exile

I.

The ladybug must’ve crashed into the paint when it was still wet, or maybe I slopped some azure right over her, but either way her mangled little body was the only blemish, legs stuck out like tiny twigs and wings of ruined gauze. You had to crane your neck to see her smushed up there by the trim above the front door. Otherwise, the porch looked flawless, like a great slab of sky wrestled down to Earth, with white Adirondack chairs drifting like clouds, my barbeque a smoking thunderhead, and me and Randy lounging like gods after a long epic of creation.

We’d built the porch without banisters. You could see right off it, straight into my new neighbourhood, the slumping homes and barren street, the two-door hatchbacks with rust-bitten side panels, all the untouched doorbells and overgrown gardens. And of course everyone could look right back at you, peering through the windshields of their vehicles or between the blinds in their kitchens, and they were all curious about the new guy with his barbeque out front — curious, but weirdly aloof.

Maybe I should’ve paid more attention to that, but I was distracted. I was mourning. Because there was Joy to think about, always creeping around the edges of my imagination. She shunned my calls but stalked my memory, moaning like a spirit, and in her murky form I saw everyone else from back home too, all swirling together, sniggering and grey. If only they could’ve seen me eating and drinking up there on my new porch with my new neighbour — my new friend. They would’ve missed me then. They would’ve been sorry.

Hell of a goddamn fine day, Randy said, pressing a bottle of beer against his broad forehead, a little tangle of thinning hair plastered to his pale flesh with sweat and melted ice from the cooler. Real shame about that accident, though, eh? Or whatever you wanna call it.

Randy was late that afternoon, the first time since we’d met. He worked in the suburbs, piled his tools into his truck every morning and cruised the freeways, off to rebuild someone’s deck, to frame an addition, to sledge an interior wall. His business was called Randy’s Renos. A reliable income, he’d say, lightly banging his fist against the hood of his truck. And fun, too.

But there’d been an incident on the freeway that afternoon. There was this young mother, pretty and blond but tearful and speeding. Both her children were unbuckled in the backseat when she drifted over the centre line, smashing head-on into a transport truck hauling Chinese bric-a-brac to department stores. Her tiny children weren’t wearing seatbelts. They flew through the windshield and were swallowed by the ensuing curls of sheared metal and shrieking rubber. The woman wasn’t buckled in either, and her body crunched against the grille of the big rig. Nearby vehicles swerved, slid, crashed into guardrails, into each other, into nothing at all, and all down the freeway were dozens of stupefied drivers and their pounding hearts, hands cramped around steering wheels and traffic backed up for miles. First responders arrived. They combed the freeway, picked through the woman’s car, and found a suicide note taped to the inside door panel.

Really brings the world to a halt, Randy said, when you stop and think about it. I mean, when you stop and think about how much you trust all them people in oncoming lanes. Who says they’re gonna follow the rules? Who says they know the basics?

I liked Randy’s thoughtful nature. I liked to imagine him shrunk down to adolescence, his brawny arms across the desk in one of my art classes, a bad kid in some people’s eyes, but not in mine. I’d teach him the fundamentals: straight lines and geometric shapes; contrast shading; cross-hatching; perspective points. Randy would grow up to build homes like expressionist movie sets, like The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, like Salvador Dali. Like my lovely front porch.

I stood up, emptied my beer, and motioned toward the cooler to offer Randy another. You ever look them in the eyes? When they’re driving past? I do, Randy. At least, I do when they’re willing to look back. My dad always said, look a man in the eyes, and you know what he’s about.

I hovered over the cooler for a moment. I stared straight into Randy’s gun-smoke eyes and he stared into mine. Flames puffed loudly beneath the closed lid of the barbeque. Wind brushed through the neighbourhood’s enduring trees.

Then Randy nodded and smiled a gentle half-moon. Your father sounds like a real good guy, Wesley. Like a real smart man.

I flipped open the cooler and dipped downward to palm a couple beers from the icy slough. Then, standing up again, I brushed my shoulder against a support column. My shirt caught and tore, the sound a shock to both of us.

"Well, no shit, Randy exclaimed, lifting himself out of his chair, fingers in his moustache, thumb against his cheek. Did we actually miss a fuckin’ nail? Good goddamn! Two pro sluggers like us! How does that even happen?"

Clouds of embarrassment gathered in my cheeks. Randy was a professional, with his name stencilled on the doors of his truck, red letters, sans serif. Obviously, I was the one who missed the nail. I glanced at my T-shirt, one of my favourites, blue and white stripes with a collar, a gift from someone special. Now the arm hung like two torn rags. In between, on my skin, an angry red slash, raised and jagged.

You wanna grab my tool belt? It’s over on my porch there. I’m gonna look for more deviant nails. Get this bad boy finished up good.

Our properties were separated by a thin strip of sun-blasted grass. We’d shaken hands across it when we met, and just like that our front yards merged into one. But we didn’t go inside each other’s houses — too dirty, we’d say, ah, the bachelor’s life. Besides, we had all the space in the world right there in plain view, where anyone could join in. We didn’t want our friendship to unfurl in front of the TV, ankle-deep in fast food containers, hooded eyes locked on the screen. Out there, on the porch, we had things to discuss. We had the basics.

So I stepped over the little strip of grass and climbed Randy’s steps. He’d let his porch go to seed while helping refurbish my own. Filthy white paint peeled off the wood in strips. Clutter consumed the surface. There were blue bags full of recycling with rancid juices bulging their corners, and cardboard boxes piled against the banisters as if swept in on a gale. In the middle of it all, completely out of place, was a shiny pink tricycle with streamers dangling from the handlebars and unicorn stickers on the sloping crossbar. I scooped his tool belt off the steps, turned away from the house, and trotted back.

Out on the street, one of our neighbours was walking her dog, a giant, snorting Rottweiler she kept pressed against her thigh on a short leash. I’d seen her many times since moving to the city. She was an austere, senior lady, neatly attired in crisp blue jeans and a plain white blouse, sunglasses hiding her softly wrinkled face. But she wasn’t friendly. I waved every time — I did it right then, tool belt in my upraised hand — but she only regripped the dog’s leash and started up her driveway, looking once over her shoulder before slipping behind the barrier of her front door.

Got the tools, I said, lifting the belt up to Randy, who was investigating the deck on his hands and knees, searching for offending nails. Is your niece’s birthday coming up or something?

I knew he had a niece because I’d met his sister more than once. The first time, they were fighting. I’d only just met Randy. I didn’t want to intrude. It was late and I was standing on what used to be my porch, a slumping mound of rotten wood and dangerous splinters. His sister was drunk. She’d just come from the bar. I could tell that much. She wore stilettos and a miniskirt. She had a thin scrap of shiny purple material hanging from her neck and covering her breasts. She clattered down Randy’s driveway, swinging her glitzy clutch, makeup running down her face.

I won’t fall for that again, she screamed. I won’t fall for it ever again!

Randy watched her march past my house, her heels rattling along the ruined sidewalk. He saw me standing there, shrugged, and waved her off.

Sorry about my sister, he said the next morning, while I was sipping coffee and pondering my front yard. She’s the original loudmouth. Lucky for you, I’m the original carpenter. You gonna need help with that porch?

Randy showed up every Saturday morning after that, hammer in one hand, measuring tape in the other. He took me to the hardware store and helped me select materials and a few tools of my own. We loaded our basics into the back of his truck and I bought coffees for the ride home.

Now, he looked up from the sky-blue marvel we’d created and turned from me to his porch, a crease in his moistened brow. Oh, you mean that trike? No, sir. My sister don’t have kids. I found that in the middle of the street on my way home. Figured I better bring it in before the damn teenagers ruin it to shit. Thing’s pretty well brand new, eh? I’m gonna post it on the Internet. You know those classifieds sites with all the prostitutes? It’s gross, but they got lost and founds too.

He lifted his tool belt from my hand, set it on the edge of the deck, and slid the hammer from its clasp.

That right there? I said, gesturing from him to his house and over to the tricycle, my head fuzzy from the beer. That’s community. Don’t you think?

Randy smiled and raised his hammer. That’s one word for it, buddy.

I stifled a hiccup and smiled right back. Damn straight, man. And all thanks to you.

II.

Just a few months before, when I still lived in Deep River, the whole faculty came to my going-away party, even though I didn’t want to leave. Joy’s little brown car was parked in the street, a bottle of wine visible on the passenger-side floor. Bill Carter wore shorts and a T-shirt just like the pubescent skateboarders at St. Mary’s, except his limbs were hairy with cottony tufts. He opened his front door of frosted glass and stuck his palm out at me, a wretched liver spot spreading from his wrist to the top of his hand.

Glad you could make it, he said, beaming. It won’t be the same without you.

He ushered me inside, breath pungent with alcohol. I’d seen Bill like this before, of course. His sartorial double life was legendary. As the principal of St. Mary’s, he came to work with his shoulders hunched in drab, grey suits, his glasses so heavy that when he took them off to pinch his nose, you could see furious, red indentations in his flesh. He was an ancient but persisting life force at school, one moment beleaguered by budgetary concerns and sliding enrolment, the next demoralizing delinquents and punishing truants, jabbing at them with his long, bony fingers. But then at faculty parties, he wore contacts and copped the kids’ dress style, the back of his pants like a full diaper hanging just above his knees. He guzzled alcohol, spouted sports statistics, and blathered on about local politics.

And here’s a little gift from your students, he said as I entered his home. He squeezed my shoulder the way he had in February, when I’d left his office with only a few months remaining on my contract, and his new receptionist, plucking at her keyboard, pointedly ignored me. You remember, right? Your spring project? I tracked down each one of your students, got them to sign their pieces, and I brought them straight here just for this occasion.

I looked up from the six-pack I’d been cradling. He’d mounted my grade twelve class’s Rorschach paint blots in a random, chaotic sequence along the hallway walls leading to the living room. The prints loomed over me, swirling with inky tendrils and loaded with shifting implications. I must’ve flinched, because Bill squeezed my shoulder again and pulled me protectively against his frail chest.

Take it easy, Picasso, he said, gently prising the box of beer from my hands. The artists are always the first ones to be killed in a conservative revolution. That’s a historical formula. You can bet your ass. But don’t worry because you’ll do well in the city. We all know it. And Jill says she got you a great deal on the house. A great price for such an old slump. So really it’s the local kids who lose on this one, right? And isn’t it always? I mean, aren’t the goddamn rural school boards turning into concentration camps because of these fascists? Christ, Picasso. It’s the apocalypse. He belched and exhaled a soft moan. But enough about the government. Everyone’s out back on the deck. Let’s go feel the love.

On the other side of a sliding door that clattered with gaudy stained-glass ornaments, Bill Carter’s deck was a huge and russet-coloured thing that annexed much of his manicured backyard, with benches built into its railings, two picnic tables with umbrellas in their centres, and three five-step stairways.

Just fifteen years before, this neighbourhood didn’t exist at all. Aspens, maples, and pines stood there instead. When I was little, I chased squirrels and scoured for insects in those woods, just like my dad when he grew up in Deep River. In my teens, I hiked the terrain with a sketchpad and scribbled charcoal drawings of my favourite tree trunks. But in more prosperous times, the likes of Bill Carter’s wife bought land parcels from the government and subdivided them like Christmas turkeys. They cleared the lots and raised their homes. Then they all built lovely, expansive decks so that we could commune upon them in the first warm breaths of summer, the air thick with the smell of barbequed meat and fine wines. Hell of a place, the Carters inevitably said when they hosted parties to welcome new staff. "Round here, folks rely on each other."

Unless you were me, in which case you couldn’t rely on much more than an awkward party before sloping into exile.

Here’s the man of the night, Bill shouted as we stepped onto the deck.

At first, I couldn’t see Joy in the crowd of bodies that turned to face me. Instead, I saw Jimbo Huggins, the gym teacher, his polo shirt tucked into a pair of khaki cargo shorts, a bottle of light beer hovering above his expanding belly. He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to upset my footing, way harder than called for by our two years of awkward conversations in the faculty room.

Then Jimbo was gone, his entire presence dissolving into the crowd, and the familiar faces of the volunteer library council emerged in his stead, my soon-to-be former allies and enemies in the never-ending grapple to attract quality programming, contemporary inventory, and younger readers. They threw their arms round my shoulders, pumped my hand, and snapped back into a nondescript morass beneath the soft, early evening sun. Next was the cast of campaign volunteers I’d huddled with during the last mayoral election, when we campaigned to elect a council that would tussle with the province and collude with the school board. Then they were gone too, and along came the handful of childhood friends who hadn’t moved out of town, the old guard who hadn’t yet been laid off from the plant and still gathered once a week at the sports bar for wings and a few pitchers of beer.

Everyone seemed inappropriately drunk for a party that had only just begun, but I checked my watch and I wasn’t late. Jill Carter, her oddly feline features as radiant as on the headshots of her increasingly ubiquitous real estate signs, flung her bangle-heavy wrists into the air and led everyone through a few lines of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. I couldn’t look them in the eyes. Instead, I fixed my gaze on the few trees still standing in the Carters’ backyard, in particular an abundant maple that towered over the perimeter dividing their property from the neighbour’s.

Abruptly, they stopped singing and clapping and fell back into the cliques they’d established before my arrival. Someone switched the stereo on to classic rock and I combed the crowd, wandering aimlessly between shoulders. Finally, I saw Joy leaning against one of the deck’s outer railings, and I wriggled my way over.

She wore one of her brightly coloured sundresses rescued from the dour racks of the church’s thrift shop. Her shoulders were bare, sun-kissed, and lightly freckled, with loops of auburn hair dangling just above them. She didn’t see me coming. She was talking with Jimbo, leaning into him, with her glass of red wine held inches from his bottle of light beer.

Jimbo was saying: That little pecker drives me nuts. I mean you can only blame so much on your parents, right? So they drink. Who doesn’t? Like, you know? Is that a good reason to miss practice? Like, is he in tears when he tells you about it?

Joy nodded enthusiastically, her delicate, peach-coloured lips shaping an answer. But she saw me out of the corners of her blue eyes and stiffened.

You know I can’t talk about that kind of stuff, Coach, she said, waving a dismissive hand in the direction of Jimbo’s gut. Then she turned to me, squared her shoulders, and exclaimed: Wes! Hi!

I thought she might finally hug me in public. Because it didn’t matter who knew at that point — the art teacher dating the guidance counsellor! — five years of Tuesday and Thursday nights behind closed doors, pizza boxes and foreign movies, red wine staining the kitchen counter and all our naked parts puckered and bitten. Then, in the middle of the night, when all the houses fell dark and the neighbourhood was quiet, she would sneak back home, stealing along the trail system to her side of town. But it didn’t matter anymore if Bill Carter saw us embrace in the full light of day, saw our lips pressed in scandalous passion. The son of a bitch had laid me off. His prudish staff policies couldn’t restrain us anymore. We were free to go public.

But Joy didn’t hug me. She sipped her wine and crossed her arms. She shot me a poignant look and cleared her throat. A terrible silence surrounded us, every second bulging with awkward tension, Jimbo swaying there with a drunken, flabby smile on his face, oblivious and indulgent. Finally, his cellphone went off, the ring tone a synthesized Bob Marley redux — Jimbo was jammin — and he stepped aside to take the call.

You know, I said, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her, "in a way, this is what we always wanted. What we always talked about. A job in the city, right? We don’t have to have secrets anymore. And the house I bought? It’s a fixer-upper. You said you like fixer-uppers. We can be who we want to be. Right out in the open. I mean, we can actually be who