He felt as if he’d outwitted the tape until a choir began the hymn he had been hearing all day. The emptiness within him was urging him to join in, but he wouldn’t while he had any strength. He managed to suck his bottom lip between his teeth and gnaw it, though he wasn’t sure if he could feel even a distant ache. Voodoo widower, he chanted to himself to break up the oppressive repetition of the hymn, voodoo widower. He was fending off the hymn, though it seemed impossibly loud in his head, when he heard another sound. The outer door was opening.
He couldn’t move, he couldn’t even call out. The numbness that had spread from his thumb through his body had sculpted him to the chair. He heard the outer door slam as bodies blundered voicelessly about the vestibule. The door to the room inched open, then jerked wide, and the two overalled figures struggled into the room.
He’d known who they were as soon as he’d heard the outer door. The hymn on the tape must have been a signal that he was finished—that he was like them. They’d tampered with the latch on their way out, he realized dully. He seemed incapable of feeling or reacting, even when the larger of the figures leaned down to gaze into his eyes, presumably to check that they were blank, and Bright saw how the gray, stretched lips were fraying at the corners. For a moment Bright thought the man’s eyes were going to pop out of their seedy sockets at him, yet he felt no inclination to flinch. Perhaps he was recognizing himself as he would be—yet didn’t that mean he wasn’t finished after all?
The man stood back from scrutinizing him and turned up the volume of the hymn. Bright thought the words were meant to fill his head, but he could still choose what to think. He wasn’t that empty, he’d done his bit of good for the world, he’d stood aside to give someone else a chance. Whatever the priest had brought back from Haiti might have deadened Bright’s body, but it hadn’t quite deadened his mind. He fixed his gaze on the photograph and thought of the day he’d walked on a mountain with her. He was beginning to fight back toward his feelings when the other man came out of the kitchen, bearing the sharpest knife in the place.
They weren’t supposed to make Bright suffer, the tape had said so. He could see no injuries on them. Suppose there were mutilations that weren’t visible? “Neither men nor women shall we be in the world to come.” At last Bright understood why his visitors seemed sexless. He tried to shrink back as the man who had turned up the hymn took hold of the electric iron.
The man grasped it by the point before he found the handle. Bright saw the gray skin of his fingers curl up like charred paper, but the man didn’t react at all. He closed his free hand around the handle and waited while his companion plodded toward Bright, the edge of the knife blade glinting like a razor. “It helps if you sing,” said the man with the knife. Though Bright had never been particularly religious, nobody could have prayed harder than he started to pray then. He was praying that by the time the first of them reached him, he would feel as little as they did.
Being An Angel (1989)
The first time Fowler heard it he was sixteen years old, and changing in so many ways he might have thought it was another of them. That morning, after scrutinizing his face in the mirror for eruptions to nip and dab, he cut himself shaving and had to paper his chin until he was afraid that his mother would start thumping the door and demanding to know what he was up to. But when he took his scrappy face downstairs she only repeated, "Happy birthday. You're going to do well."
She had been reassuring him like that for weeks. "English Literature," she said as if that were a present, which in a sense it was: he'd already unwrapped a volume of Dickens to add to the uniformed rank on his shelf. "You just remember all I've taught you."
His father looked up from scraping carbon off his toast, pushing his lips forward so that his black mustache appeared poised to vanish into the twin burrows of his nose. "He might want to keep in mind the questions his teacher said they might set."
"His teacher's got as little idea as you have," she said, and even more contemptuously: "If we ever want to learn about totting up figures we'll tell you."
Fowler would have liked to say that he appreciated the help his father had given him with mathematics, except that he'd been told not to let his mother know. He ate as much of his toast and almost raw fried egg as he could gather up. His father growled encouragement before his mother straightened Fowler's tie, picked paper off his face, wrapped her pudgy freckled arms around him and pressed her cheek against his. "I'll be praying for you," she vowed.
He wished she wouldn't work herself into a state on his behalf. He'd come home yesterday from sitting English Language to find her propped up shakily in bed, still praying for his success. Now her face was already as pale as then; her unbrushed red hair seemed to blaze. She gave him a last hug so fierce that he couldn't help wondering if besides trying to take his anxiety on herself she wasn't as sure of his preparedness as she wanted him to think.
He tried to ban the idea from his mind as he stood upstairs on the bus to school, clinging to a pole. He quoted Shakespeare to himself as if his mother were there, testing him. "First to sit down will be first in the class," she often said, and so he hurried to the gymnasium which was being used as the examination room.
When all the examinees had taken their places the invigilator distributed the papers, bared her wrist and raised it to her face, stared at her watch and let her mouth hang open until Fowler thought her false teeth were about to slip. "Begin," she said at last, and the sound of opened papers soared beneath the ceiling. The scrabbling of pens and the smell of years of sweat surrounded Fowler like symptoms of fever as he gazed dismayed at the pages in front of him. Among all the questions on Much Ado About Nothing, there wasn't one for which his mother had coached him.
As for the questions about the other set books, there was just one he had been led to expect by his teacher. He ought to tackle that at once, to give himself more time to struggle with the others, but the sight of so many unforeseen questions was paralyzing his thoughts. He had been staring glumly for minutes, and was close to fleeing into the open summer air, when he heard a low voice near him.
He wouldn't look. Glancing at your neighbors was the way to get disqualified. Which of them was it? It didn't sound like Andrew Travis on his left—Andrew's voice was trying out octaves this year—and it wasn't Gozzy Milne on his right, because Gozzy always pretended to be adjusting his glasses or picking his nose in order to whisper in class. Why wasn't the invigilator singling out the offender? Fowler crouched over his desk to demonstrate that he wasn't the murmurer, and then the voice grew clear.
It was behind him, too close to be from the next desk. The speaker might have been reading the questions about Much Ado About Nothing over his shoulder. "Beatrice and Benedick's words get in the way of their feelings," the voice said. "They have to be tricked into saying what they won't admit they feel, and then they admit it by pretending they're saying the opposite."
His mother hadn't had much to say about the characters, except to mutter about people being tricked into marrying someone unworthy of them. What impressed him most about the quiet sexless voice was its absolute sureness. As it began to repeat its comments, he snatched up his pen and started writing. Before long he wasn't aware of hearing the voice, and yet he felt he was taking down its dictation as fast as he could write legibly. Having delayed at the outset left him barely enough time to deal with the required number of questions, and he was on his way out of the gymnasium before he had a chance to wonder whose voice he'd been hearing.