The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [93]
He starts to unravel his mother's other leg. Beneath the strips her skin is mottled and cracked, weeping. She calls out weakly, as if injured. He unravels three broad strips from her legs and crawls away, her cries in his ear.
He soaks the strips in the toilet. He wraps three wet strips of sheet over his face, knotting them together behind his ears. The wet rags adhere to his skin. He gashes holes for his eyes. The top of one strip and the bottom of another strip join at his mouth. When he opens his mouth, the strips part. When he closes his mouth, the strips join. Water gathers beneath his chin, dripping down onto his keys. Perhaps the water will rust the keys.
The dust thickens beyond the intersection, fingering the walls. The dust gathers thickly near the walls further down, bowing the floor.
From the edge of the intersection, a series of identical marks leads into the dust. The marks are staggered ― right, left, right. They lie separated at an equal distance.
Each mark consists of two portions. The first is an elongated ovoid peaked at the front, flat at the back. The second, behind the first and separated from it by a narrow strip of raised dust, is a half circle.
He looks over his shoulder for his father. His father is not behind him. He squats down. With his hand, he wipes out all the marks he can reach.
He takes the bundled cloth from off its hook, unwraps it. Inside is gray dust, finer than the dust of the intersection. He pinches some yellow dust from the floor, sprinkling the dust onto the dust in the bundle.
Behind him, the sound of his father's boots. He knots the bundle shut, stands.
"What happened to your face?" his father says.
Brey feels the wet cloth over his face.
"What do you have in your hand, son?"
Uncurling his fingers, Brey holds up the knotted rag.
"Are these your mother's wrappings, Brey?" says his father, his voice rising.
"This?" says Brey. "She gave it to me?"
Brey unties the bundle with his teeth. Turning his father's palm upward, he fills it with dust.
His father frowns. He opens his fingers, lets the dust trickle out. He brushes his palm against his leg. He takes Brey by the shoulders, turning Brey toward him.
Says his father, "Where did I go wrong?"
His Mask.
He steps deep into the intersection. Easing to his knees, he closes his eyes. He slides from one knee to the other, feeling the dust push up before him. He slides his hands in. He fans them over the floor.
His fingers cross something hard. He brings his hands together, feeling the dust billow. He picks up a ring of keys. He straightens his back and stands, moving sideways until he touches a wall. He opens his eyes.
The air of the intersection is dark with dust. His body and boots are coated and dull. The wet rags covering his face have thickened, the dust and dampness forming a paste.
He scrapes the paste from his mouth, folds the cloth back from his lips. He scoops up handfuls of dust, packs them against the damp rags.
He passes water near the wall, mixing a mud of urine and dust with his fingers. He packs his face thick with mud, smoothing it with his palms.
Around him, the dust now lies heaped and swirled. The marks are gone.
Dust to dust, perhaps, Father?
His face grows hard.
He opens the door to his room. His father sits on the palette, his knees gathered in his arms.
"About this mask, Brey," says his father. "Does it have any purpose?"
"Purpose?" says Brey.
"I thought not," says his father, rising.
He opens the door, but turns back.
"By the way, what did you mix with the dust?" his father says.
"Water?" says Brey.
"Water?" says his father. "Not water taken from the sink, Brey."
"Not the sink," Brey admits.
"Where else is there water? The toilet?" says his father. "Good Lord, son, take the mask off."
She is asleep. He unwraps her feet, removes her slippers. She mumbles, curls her toes. He places