Barlow Crassmont
Delayed Symptoms
‘Jill’s mother died.’
The bleak news doused their shouting match better than an extinguisher. ‘She texted earlier. ‘The words wormed themselves from his throat laboriously, like jagged eels.
‘W-what?’ Mari’s hand was an arachnid of flesh and bone over her gaping mouth. ‘Are you serious?’ Porter nodded. ‘Why did she tell you, and not me?’ If only he could answer, instead of shrugging nonchalantly. The disappointment caused Mari’s eyes to bulge and, eventually, redden. Once the first whimper sounded, rogue tears followed.
‘I’m sorry.’ He placed his arm on her shoulder, and she soon forgot their previous argument. The embrace was as warm as any they’ve shared in a while. When she buried her head against his chest, he knew disaster had been averted, at least for now.
What could he do? Stuck between a rock and a hard place, he refused the slightest graze with either. When faced with insurmountable odds, the smart play was to fall back, and concede to untruths. At least then his personal failures and disappointments were not front and centre. It was now time for the latest fiction, for the band-aid he’d employed was merely temporary.
‘Jill said she wants to be alone,’ Porter whispered. ‘No calls or texts.’
‘R-really?’ Mari’s body quivered, and she stared without blinking. ‘Huh.’ Porter, however, was a step ahead. ‘I have to go. Doctor is waiting.’
‘Doctor?’
‘Just a check-up. Haven’t been in a while.’
And there it was. A seed. Just what he needed to say, and what she needed to hear.
For the effect to be complete, he’d disappear for a while, and return with slumped shoulders. He could picture it: pouting his way to the fridge, cracking a beer, then placing it down, unable to drink, his hand over his face, the prince of melancholy. Sensing his sorrow, Mari will approach with mixed emotions. On one hand, she’ll be fuming about the earlier lie, for by then she’ll have gotten the truth from her friend. On the other, she’ll be doubtful about his possible prognosis, for it may, just this once, be authentic.
‘Hey,’ she said when he’d returned. The aftermath of laborious sobbing was discernible in her shaky voice. ‘How’d it go?’ His shrug was apathetic and distant. From a corner of his eye, he tested the temperature without looking at her directly. Maybe she still doesn’t know, he thought.
‘I talked to Jill,’ Mari’s intonation rose as her body stormed at him. ‘I can not believe you’d lie about th—’
‘He found a tumor,’ Porter said, his sight never leaving the floor. ‘Prostate.’ Of the few talents he possessed, acting was not among them. Yet he gave it his all, for nothing less would suffice. Hiding his face, he wept like an unfaithful worshiper on judgment day. He held this semblance extensively, without a false note. Endurance was gonna get him through, if only he could stretch the act. Feel it, believe it, BE IT!
And he did. When Mari wrapped her thin arms around him, their grasp lingered between a passive hug and a passionate caress. She suspected little, and their intimacy felt righter than rain. If Porter could’ve stopped time, and stretched the stillness of this moment into eternity, he would have. The endlessness would be burdensome only in the beginning, but with the onset of years, the passage of time would speed up; himself and Mari would ultimately perish, her never being the wiser. Yet the uncomfortable reality required new periodic fallacies, as the morning needs the sun.
***
Several weeks later Porter rose with noticeable gunk in his eyes. Not even his toxic breath could have masked the awkwardness he faced while standing over the toilet. His urine flow was interrupted multiple times, and he struggled mightily to empty his bladder. When he caught sight of Mari’s reflection in the mirror, eyeballing him like a skeptic in hiding, Porter was spooked.
Why does she look at me so?
He squeezed, he pulled, he twisted; he did all he could to milk the slightest drop, and by the time the burning sensation dissipated, he was already dreading his next toilet visit.
Mari’s calmness was as palpable as a frosty peak in wintertime.‘I’m sorry I doubted you,’ she said. Her newfound benevolence caught Porter off guard. He was used to her bickering cries, her screaming, her disapproval of most everything he did; but not this. The weirdness was palpable, and it stung like a rogue hornet. Such an unexplainable oddity called for a new untruth. He had to bail himself out-but all he drew was a sea of blanks. It was Mari who spoke first.
‘I talked to Jill. Her mother died last night. This time for real.’
‘R-really?’ Porter asked.
She nodded.‘You’ve become quite the prophet. Who knew.’
Porter opened his mouth, but could utter nothing. The unsaid words retreated back into his throat, where they lingered extensively. His hand, in a defensive reflex, enveloped his privates. Porter wanted to speak and mask the awkwardness, but the lump in his throat was nearly as big as the one on his left testicle. AQ