Helen Mirren
Shortly after his wife’s funeral, James dreamt of being underwater, or of being behind a glass partition in an aquarium. On the other side were fish pushing their lips against the semi-transparent wall– some greenish-brown carp, or a variety of goldfish with bizarre traits: a three-lobed flowing tail, a triple fin, bulging telescope eyes. Some were scale-less or had calico patterns. Their sleek bodies lured him.
These images spilled over into James’ waking life, only the features more human-like, parts of a whole. Sometimes when walking down the street, he saw a spread of lips in the window, red and glossy. Or he caught an eye winking back at him in the side mirror of a parked car. It could have been his own. At his job as a mortgage broker at First Fidelity, he often observed, in a moment’s flash, a floating woman’s image superimposed on a client’s face.
He missed the sense of order she imparted to his waking life. His shirts, which she often chose for work, had always been ironed and spotless. If his car broke down, she came to pick him up. At night in dreams, he swam towards her with the knowledge that sooner or later, one of them would attempt to breathe air.
Although he never cheated on his wife, he had a thing for the shapely woman who processed the bank loans at work —Helen Mirren. She was constantly teased about her name and she always responded to inquires with a “No, I’m not related to the British actress. If I had her talent, I wouldn’t be working at a bank.”
When Helen learned of James’ wife passing away, she held his hand and looked soulfully in his eyes. “I’m very sorry,” she said.
His hand in hers began to quiver.
Over time, James grew more attracted to Helen Mirren, often seeing her face, or parts of what he assumed to be her, in his bathroom mirror, in the car’s rearview. At times, he imagined his wife next to her. He kept a calculated distance for fear of crushing something.
At home alone, James feared the reality of his house sinking into disarray. Wrinkled shirts and kitchen appliances he couldn’t replace without a second opinion. Most of all, he noticed the scent of his wife disappearing. In the evolving chaos of his home he pictured Helen’s small nose that hardly breathed, her perfect blue fish-egg eyes.
James now embarked on a ritual that became more frequent. During the late evening, he drove and parked near Helen’s apartment and waited outside the complex. He suspected her of having an affair with Chas Dietrich, a man who wore matching stitched suits and trousers that were made in Lombardy, a district manager who was married. Late at night, he climbed jutting bricks to peep inside her third-story window. Through closed blinds, he could make out a medley of shadows trapped inside the other’s darkness.
His doctor increased his medication and added a sedative. James suspected Helen in some reflection of the house, waiting for him to visit. At times, he sensed her anger.
One night, James climbed to Helen’s window. He was having a hard time keeping his footing. Suddenly, the voices behind the window died. He tried to hold on but the bricks’ sharp edges hurt the soft fleshy part of his fingers. He began to lose his footing. As James slowly slipped away, Helen opened the blinds. Her nightgown boasted ample cleavage, her hair in disarray. In those fuzzy few seconds, James tried to smile.
And he fell for what seemed forever. He wondered if he could swim in the air like a movie stuntman. A hedge broke James’ fall. Prickly twigs pierced his face. He couldn’t feel his own blood.
At home, he studied himself in the bathroom mirror. With his face full of cuts and bruises, he couldn’t go to work the next day. Behind his red and swollen eyes, he formed her image in the mirror. It was Helen Mirren, the real one, who could play so many women with deep underwater eyes.
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Bio
Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. His stories and poems have been featured in Prick of the Spindle, Foundling Review, Nano Fiction, Everyday Genius, and elsewhere.