Halibut on the Moon

by David Vann

  “Sometimes we think mental illness is nothing, but it’s something, and you’re suffering, but you can get past it and recover and be yourself again. It’s possible.”

  “You haven’t been here. If you had seen this place you’d know.”

  “Keep your eyes closed and keep walking. Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes.” Jim keeps walking farther along the bottom.

  “And now I want you to stop and turn around and find the light from where you entered.”

  Jim opens his eyes. “That’s just so stupid. Honestly. The light at the end of the tunnel? Come on.”

  “Sorry,” Brown says. “Maybe it was too obvious.”

  “Yeah. I told my kids they took a halibut up to the moon and let it fly, but I’m realizing now that the moon is an easy place, so much nicer. So much easier to live there.”

  “Are you going to see your kids again today?”

  “No. Just going to the airport and then up to Fairbanks.”

  “And your brother is still going with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need to talk with him again.”

  “Honestly? I think he’s been briefed. And I’m not a child. So no, you don’t get to talk with him.”

  “Okay. Well we need to come up with a plan.”

  “No we don’t. The plan was the problem all along.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Talking with my friend John, I realized I’ve always had a plan, and that’s been the problem. He thinks killing myself is my plan now, something I have to accomplish, like finishing my homework, and I can never not finish my homework.”

  “So it has to be okay to fail at this idea of killing yourself.”

  “Yes, even though that’s embarrassing.”

  “Embarrassing?”

  “Yeah, everyone expects it now. And I’ve told everyone. Would be awkward to stick around.”

  “That’s interesting. So how can we make it okay to fail at this?”

  “Just undo all my education and everything I’ve been for almost forty years.”

  “Maybe you could write a letter to yourself, explaining why it is you can’t do it and why that’s going to be okay.”

  “Sixty just seems like too much. You need to think about your rates. Writing a letter to myself? Dear Jim, where did all the happy thoughts go? Why can’t we go skipping through the corn again? PS: I’m not going to be able to pull the trigger. Sorry, but don’t be mad.”

  Dr. Brown is looking down at his hands now. Jim has broken him just a bit, maybe. “It feels good to break you,” Jim says. “A bit of unexpected satisfaction right at the end. So thank you for that.”

  Jim counts out three twenties and walks quickly around the desk. Brown puts up his hands to protect his face, some instinctive reaction, but Jim reaches down quick and tucks the money into the waist of his jeans. “Thanks for fucking me.”

  Brown looks angry but Jim is laughing, this rush of happiness, buoyant, and he walks out. He will never see any therapist’s office again.

  Gary is waiting in the truck. “What?” Gary asks. “What’s so funny? Why are you smiling? And why are you done early?”

  Jim gets in the passenger side and just feels better. “I feel good,” he says. “We had a kind of breakthrough. It all feels lighter now.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well that’s great! That’s fantastic.”

  “Yep. I’ve turned a corner. I’m no longer afraid to go back up to Alaska.” Jim looks at Gary, both of them grinning, and Jim thinks this is perfect. This is the way it should go. “You don’t even need to come up. You can continue on with your teaching and Mary and not have the disruption.”

  Gary looks wary at that. “But I’m not supposed to leave you alone, especially during these first two weeks on the medication, and I’m supposed to keep you away from your guns.”

  “Brown said that’s not necessary anymore. He said I don’t have to be watched.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “It’s a different understanding. I realized, from talking with John, that suicide was my plan, a kind of thing I felt I had to accomplish, and now I see I don’t have to do that.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well let me think about this.” Gary starts the truck and drops it into drive and they ease away.

  Jim isn’t sure what to say next. He needs to be careful not to say too much. All his life he’s known that believability depends on fewer words. A little liar right from his earliest memories. So when he lied to Elizabeth and to Rhoda he was doing only what came naturally. It never seemed wrong.

  “We also had a breakthrough about the guilt,” he adds, unable to hold back. He loves the lies and finds it very hard to stop. “It’s an engine for the self-pity. I understood that for the first time today. I beat myself up so much, all the time, and then I feel sorry for myself.”

  “Wow. This is all new,” Gary says. “And so quick. What a session.”

  “Yeah the therapist was great. He pointed out that wanting to sleep with other women is only natural and actually I didn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Hm,” Gary says.

  “Yeah, I know. You don’t agree.”

  “I think it’s better you’re thinking of it this way,” Gary says. “Really. And Elizabeth and Rhoda are both fine.”

  “Yeah, infidelity is not doing anything bad to anyone. It’s just doing something good with someone else and not telling the truth about it. But even not telling the truth is okay, because no one wanted the truth.”

  “Well,” Gary says, but then waves his hand in the air. “I’m sorry. I can’t help myself. I’m glad you had a good session, and I’m glad you found a new way of thinking.”

  Jim is surprised to find out Gary has judged him. In his head, the idea that his family was judging him was only a story, and he suspected that actually they were being easier on him. So strange.

  Jim looks out his side window for some privacy and wonders how anyone’s head makes any sense. He catches glimpses of himself whenever something dark passes. A face in lumps, too old and slack for thirty-nine. Lump of his chin, lump of his cheek, forehead sticking out too far, hair curly light brown and not belonging, eyes hidden away in shadow.

  “Sorry,” Gary says. “This is great, really.”

  Jim can’t afford to sink right now. He has to remain upbeat and seem repaired, all fixed. “We should have a good dinner,” he says. “Celebrate. It’ll be my treat, wherever you want to go. Then I’ll get a hotel and you can go back up to Sebastopol.”

  “I don’t know,” Gary says. “I promised everyone I wouldn’t leave you alone.”

  Jim puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “It’s alright now. They’ll understand. If you want me to call Mom and Dad and explain, I will.”

  Gary grins. “Okay, okay. Let’s just have dinner and we can talk about it later.”

  25

  The sun is going down as they approach the bay. All the houseboats next to the highway, one of them a mini Taj Mahal. Buoys and dinghies and other floating crap, everything jammed in close, too many people, and the hills the same, houses on top of each other. All the free land farther north.

  The highway sweeping up into final hills before descending to the Golden Gate, veins of red and white lights. The feeling of emptiness at the edge as they cross over. Jim would like to jump. Much more dramatic and tragic, and not violent, maybe easier for his kids. And a better story. He could go head first, make sure, because sometimes people survive the jump and live on as vegetables.

  That’s one thing he worries about, shooting himself in the head and then living. But it’s unlikely with a .44 magnum. It really should take off most of his head. He hasn’t decided mouth or temple. Or just tucked under his throat and pointing upward. No information about what method is best. He can’t ask anyone.

  All the traffic on Lombard slow, and he feels impatient. He shouldn’t have
to put up with traffic at the end. “Fucking traffic,” he says.

  “Yeah, life turns to shit in cities.”

  “Life turns to shit everywhere,” Jim says, but then he remembers he has to be positive. “But I’m feeling so much better now. It’s amazing. Like a weight gone.”

  “It’s so fast,” Gary says.

  They pass through the Mission District again, mostly Mexican. His dad never able to say he was Cherokee. Jim had no idea what his father was thinking all those years. No idea at all. “Do you know Dad hates America?”

  “What? He doesn’t hate America.”

  “Yes he does. Deeply and completely, everything it is and everyone here. It explains a lot about his behavior over the years.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “He said it this morning.”

  “No he didn’t.”

  “Fine. Enjoy your denial. Why does anyone bother talking with you?” But then Jim remembers again he’s supposed to be fixed and nice now. “Sorry,” he says. “I realize it’s hard to believe, because he didn’t say anything before. But it’s true.”

  “Wow. He said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why? Why hate America, and why say something now if not before?”

  “Now because I’m on the edge, of course. Everyone going the extra mile for me. And he hates everyone because he could never say he was Cherokee. Had to be friendly and talk with everyone while knowing they’d look down on him or worse if they knew who he was. So nothing was real for his whole adult life in Lakeport, his whole career as a dentist, and even in his retirement when he has to keep saying hi to all his former patients.”

  “It’s just hard to believe.”

  “Then don’t believe it. I’m not sure it matters one way or the other. Nothing can be done. He’s already lived a shitty life and will keep living a shitty life.”

  “No. It was a good life. We had good times, hunting and fishing and living on the lake.”

  “Yeah, he liked it when we were on the ranch and hunting. That’s the only time he liked, I think.”

  “We’re talking about him like he’s gone, but he’s still here, and he can make changes if he’s not happy.”

  “He can’t and he won’t, and I understand why. Momentum, same as in my life. Doesn’t matter if you know what’s wrong or that there could be another way. You’re still stuck on the path, just because you’ve been on it for too long. Nothing changes that.”

  “But you just changed today.”

  “True. So yeah, you’re right, momentum doesn’t rule all.” Jim has to pay more attention. “So Dad could maybe loosen up.”

  They’re shitted out the southern end of the city, the worst neighborhoods, all slum and industry, and drive along the water past the airport to an area with hotels. “Anything’s fine,” Jim says. “Any hotel.” So Gary picks and Jim checks in and then they’re standing at the elevator and Gary is having second thoughts.

  “I’ll get my bag,” Gary says. “I need to stay with you. I need to be on that flight tomorrow.”

  Jim sets his bag down and puts his hands on Gary’s shoulders, like some preacher taking one of the flock. “Gary. I’m okay now. Still not that fun to talk to, and still not that happy with how my life has gone, but I no longer need to kill myself, okay?”

  Gary can’t look at him for long. Younger brother, swayed all his life by Jim. Now will be no different. Momentum. We can never break free.

  “Okay,” Gary nods. “I’ll drive back home after dinner.”

  “Thank you.” Jim hits the button for the elevator again. “I’ll be right down. Maybe ask about restaurants. Let’s celebrate with something good.”

  The elevator is about as lonely a place as you can imagine, bare stainless box cutting off the world and erasing movement, but the room is even worse, old carpet and cheap plywood with a view out to a wall. Jim sets his valise on the desk, takes out the magnum. He sits in front of the crappy little mirror and puts the pistol to the side of his head. Loaded, so not much effort is required. Why bother to travel all the way to Alaska?

  He looks old, his skin pale and slack. And the baggy clothing from Gary. This is the worst he’s looked in his entire life, which makes sense of course. No suicide is looking good in his final moment.

  The problem is that everything is chronic, not acute. The pain in his head the same as on other days, his despair the same, the feeling of sinking and regret and guilt and self-pity and anger. But not enough to make that trigger pull. He could drift in this region forever, which is the most frightening thought, far scarier than death.

  So he puts the pistol back in his valise and zips it and returns to Gary.

  “Powdering your nose?” Gary asks.

  “Something like that.”

  “Sounds like an Italian restaurant is our best bet. Right near here.”

  So they go there and it’s big. A bus pulled up outside. The kind of place senior proms and tours go. Satiny slips on the chairs, bows and ribbons everywhere, a pig dressed like a princess.

  “Looks good,” Gary says, and Jim wonders if he really doesn’t see.

  “Great,” he says, and he knows already they’ll be ordering the chicken parmesan, which will account for about sixty percent of the orders here. But there’s no point in getting grumpy about a restaurant. The Last Meal, or is it the Last Dinner? Suddenly he can’t remember. Last Supper. His brain is just not working.

  They’re seated near a big family with kids climbing on the table to reach for each other, shouting. “Fucking eh,” Jim says.

  “We can go somewhere quieter if you want,” Gary says, barely audible.

  Jim shakes his head. He can’t shout. And maybe this is better, not having to talk in the end. It seems perfect, actually, to have everything blotted out by the dumbest noise. He looks at the menu and decides chicken cacciatore instead of parmesan.

  “Wine?” Gary shouts.

  Jim shakes his head again. He never liked alcohol. Never liked most of what everyone likes. Only sex.

  Gary stands up. “We’re moving,” he says, indicating the door. He gives a look at the family, who don’t notice, of course, and then they’re outside where the bus is idling, bathed in diesel exhaust, and Gary is looking up and down the street. “Burger joint,” he says. “Perfect.”

  “Fancy,” Jim says.

  They walk an unlit portion of sidewalk, just bare roadway along a construction site, the kind of place in a city where you could be mugged, and Jim wishes that would happen. But they make it safely to the diner, an old place smelling of deep-fry.

  The menu is written on the wall behind the counter. The bacon burger finally. Jim feels a momentary joy. “Extra barbeque sauce,” he says. “Extra bacon.”

  “I’ll get the same,” Gary says. “Sounds good. And a chocolate shake.”

  “Chocolate banana malt,” Jim says.

  “Yeah, change mine to that too.”

  The guy behind the counter is mute. Only a head nod and the total showing on the register. Jim pays and is handed a number on a metal stand.

  They sit at a table in the corner, mashed up close to others. Blue paint, very thick, and the concrete beneath them painted the same blue. As if someone just grabbed a can of paint and hurled it at this area. “You know where to take a girl,” Jim says.

  Gary laughs. “Yeah, pretty nice. Worth it to come all the way to the big city for this.”

  Jim grins.

  “Hey I’m happy you’re back,” Gary says. “Nice to see a smile.”

  Jim knows not to extend it too long. It’ll look fake then. He feels the terror of what to talk about next. How to fill the time between now and whenever Gary leaves. And after that he’s going to get fucked. He’s going to find a prostitute here.

  “What are your plans for Fairbanks?”

  Gary looks so hopeful, seems to believe Jim has turned a corner, and this is the perfect intro for a liar. Plans can balloon endlessly and never need proof. “I’m going
to swim more again,” Jim says. “At the university pool. That always relaxes me. And take a diving class. I saw they have those. Learn the high dive properly.”

  “That sounds great.”

  “Yeah, and more cross-country skiing, on the university course. The nice thing about Fairbanks is how much sun we get in the winter. It’s cold but almost always sunny. So most days are beautiful for skiing.” He almost says Gary should see it, but realizes that’s a mistake. He can’t provide any reasons for Gary to come up.

  “This all sounds positive,” Gary says. “Keeping yourself busy and enjoying what’s good about the place.”

  “There’s one other thing I’m excited about. They have an opening in a barbershop quartet.”

  “You would love that!”

  “Yeah, it’s been so long, and I do love it. I played a bit of trumpet for the local theater, but that was a while ago, my last time onstage.”

  “You can wear a straw hat and the red-and-white stripes.”

  “Yep. One of the guys is a doctor I know.” Jim is reaching now. Somehow he’s managed to not make any friends up there, and Gary might remember this.

  But Gary doesn’t notice, and their order comes quickly, the chocolate banana malts so good all either of them can do is moan. The burgers piled with bacon and barbecue sauce, the real thing, served with onion rings. Jim takes a huge bite and closes his eyes and thinks this could be the way through. Just go for simple pleasures. You don’t pull the trigger when your mouth is full of bacon. No one would do that. “Bacon,” he says. “Bacon.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What have been the best things in your life, the things you’ve enjoyed most?”

  Gary opens his eyes, says “God this is good” with his mouth full.

  Jim waits for him to finish chewing.

  “Well,” Gary says. “Speed skiing. Even though it terrified me and I stopped right away, I did enjoy that.”

  “How fast were the jet boats going?”

  “Ninety.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “And basketball. I always loved basketball. Not sure why, but something about being on a team. The best experiences are in a group or on a team.”