There Is No Year - Blake Butler [60]
THE FATHER, RECONSIDERED
The father could have done anything he wanted. He could have walked right out of the house. He could have gone to the airport and bought a ticket to Lithuania. He could have walked to the grocery store and climbed inside the freezer bin and pulled the bags of broccoli over his face. He could have become a male prostitute and fucked for cash in bathrooms with his head beating in rhythm on the toilet tank. He could use the cash to buy stocks that would skyrocket and make him very rich, rich enough to live somewhere alone for the rest of his life and not stare at boxes in an office and not speak to anyone again. Not ever. At any moment, any of these things, the father could have done them. The father did not do any of these things.
ANTECHAMBER, SECOND ANTECHAMBER, SHAFTS
The father left the room with the table and entered another room that the family did not have a name for. The father did not like the way he felt while standing in this room but he also felt that he did not want to ever leave it.
The father craned his head into the next room, which was a hallway, and the father looked and looked. The father closed his eyes. He thought he heard someone else enter the room he’d just come from. He felt light bending around his back.
The father looked again and closed again. He had to leave this room, he knew, but he did not want to touch the hallway carpet and he could not go back the way he came. The hallway carpet had a peculiar pattern.
The father held his breath and jumped across the air.
The father landed in another room. There were tiny holes in this room that looked out onto exact geographic coordinates of space. The father opened up his eyes.
The father had aged by eighteen months.
The father was at an age when eighteen months would not vastly change his outward physical appearance greatly, though some more of his hair had fallen out or molted white. His joints creaked in their gristle. His skin continued to sag. The father’s teeth bent slightly inward and were corroded slightly in color and dimension. His vision degraded enough to make him ineligible to pilot a motor vehicle. His other insurance premiums increased by 18 percent. His intestines loosened and the tapeworms inside them multiplied and slithered in their widths. The father’s brain blew fat with wrinkle.
Around the father in the house the rooms were there. Through the years these rooms would fill with things and some of those things would stay and remain the same unless moved or acted on by outside forces and other things in the rooms would come and go—this is what science had let him know. For the majority of their existence the rooms would contain nothing, and the nothing would not change.
FILM OF A FILM
In the room the father could not see one end of the room or the other. He could not see his fingers or his hands.
The father’s feet were on the floor, he felt sure. He was breathing through his mouth.
A camera may have floated through the darkness—dark was all that held the house together.
The father moved forward through the room in one direction. He could not feel his body go.
The father tried again.
Around the father the room went somewhere and in the room the father went into it and the father was there and the father moved.
He did not realize he was shouting. His voice enclosed around his head. He shook his head to get the sound out, and again began shouting, turning red:
This is my house.
This is our house.
This is where I am.
MAP OF ASCENT
The father went
—through a room he recognized into a room he did not recognize, each in exact image of the room where he’d been born
—into a room hung with photographs of people the father felt sure he did not know, he could no longer recognize his father, his father’s father, his father’s father’s father, as well as several other men with his blood in them, and