by Evan Dara
—And no one to—
—
—And so I—
—I—
—And, dammit, I understand.
—I agree!
—Who
—Would
—Ever
—Ever
—Want
—To be
—A
—Part
—Of—
Rick is on the phone, Ian is on the phone. Carol is putting two blue pens on the top shelf of the tall cabinet closest to the window, hiding them from loss’ reaching fingers.
Now Carol is speaking on the phone, while Rick is outside, for a taste of Thursday day-air. Another line rings, and Carol hand-gestures for Ian to answer. She turns away, and makes sure not to look at Ian, so he won’t feel monitored. Between volleys with the accountancy firm she’s speaking with, its head of personnel, Carol sends her attention towards Ian, hears him say ain’t.
—I didn’t know what to do. I decided to call on Ezra.
No doubt its unusual, but he’s retired and he doesn’t have much in the way of family that I know of, and I suppose I didn’t want him to put me off on the telephone. And there’s more: when I’m out at night, not only when I’m walking Dexter, there are always lights on in Ezra’s house. Always, always, one of the few givens in the neighborhood, his constant behind-the-bushes glow. So that was another reason. I wanted to check in on him.
My cover story was that I wanted to offer him my potted plants. I’ve got a corn plant, the thing is indestructible, and a ficus that, no matter what I do, it keeps losing leaves. Less water, more water, same with the sun, makes no difference. A floor filled with yellow in a few days. I didn’t care if he saw it as a cover story.
Thank God he opened the door. He looked at me square in the face, then just turned and led me in. I thought I heard a Hello, Sam!, he was friendly, he always is, and his house looked the same as I remembered it from however many years ago it was. All musty and overcluttered, with this plastic sheeting covering the runner in the main hall and the same three, four elaborate model airplanes hanging from the ceiling. Which you can’t see too well, because most of the window shades are drawn, though you can see perfectly well that the suspended models are crusted with dust.
And there are rubber pucks everywhere. Screwed into the floor to keep the doors from damaging the walls. Stuck on the walls to protect cabinet handles from doing the same. Hey, it was the upside to having a hardware store, and cyclical business.
Hi ho, Ezra!, I said when we hit his living room, but he didn’t care. He spoke about how tired he was of having to wait for grocery deliveries – Always two hours late!, he said. He talked about the noise the city groundskeepers make, using industrial mowers, edgers and leaf-blowers on the lawns surrounding his – Horrendous, he said: every day of the week! – and even griped about their manicuring his lawn. He said he’d come to miss the tinkly song of the ice-cream truck.
While he talked, he did something else. There were three mid-size suitcases lying open in the living room, two on the puffy dark-leather couch, one on top of the short piles of papers that lay on an adjacent, and very bulky, wooden desk. The suitcases were old-style things, made of stiff brown leather with a woven, rattan-like material for the grips of their handles. Once beige, they’d gone to bronze over what must have been decades. Metal corners explained their longevity.
And during all the time I was there with him, Ezra filled and unfilled these hard valises. Shirts, pants, folders, papers, socks, carnets, a few small frames and such lay scattered around the room. With focus and intent, Ezra would assemble some combination of these really unspecial things and place them in one of the bags, then decide he didn’t like something about the arrangement he had made and take everything out again. He’d then recombine the fillers in a neutral space – stacking and squaring them up on the fat armrest of the couch or on the far end of his desk – and put them in another one of the suitcases. Then he’d look in, seriously evaluate and, for no apparent reason, take the things out and start the process all over again. It was like he was playing three card monte with his own life and belongings.
With every placement or removal accompanied by a suitcase’s judging wheeze.
Well, after several – more! – minutes of this, I couldn’t hold back any longer. So I asked him, What you doing there, Ezra?
He paused for a second, but still didn’t turn around or stop his stacking, peering and removing. Getting ready, is all he said.
And when I understood, definitively, that he was more interested in stuffing and unstuffing his bags than in talking to me, that he had no intention whatsoever of turning to face the person who had gone out of his way to pay him a visit, I got the hell out of there. Just said OK, goodbye, and took myself to the door. Didn’t even use my cover story.
—Yes, you have done it. You have accomplished something extraordinary. You have sacrificed – despoiled – your time, your blood, your honor, your specificity … And for what …?
—For—?
—Now I wander. In the sunshine, under clouds, I wander around the ferry dock and College Street and City Hall Park, past First United and McDonald House and (the former) J. Lemay. The sidewalks, the alleyways, the green areas, the parking lots, the great shared spaces – mostly filled with air. There is no one walking with me. A bus, a car, a straggler – of course. But, mostly, empty.
Still, I feel them there. Them, the others, so many of the others, no longer there. But I feel them. They are there. I feel thrusts of wind from passing skin, see eyes that skip like finches and eyes that are hypnotizing the straight ahead. I watch folds on faces become hammocks or curtains. Glasses helping head-hair or breastbones see. Stride choices. Fashion expressions/submissions. Ardor or – and! – indifference. They are there …
So, no, not, I do not. I do not miss them.
—Oh, so sad. To see Seattle still open, but with no one going in. The old, old pharmacy, huddling brown walls looking even darker with no one going in. The jumbles and groves of items no longer seeming abundant but disregarded, forgotten, with no one going in. The sign in the lower corner of the front window, Estab. 1937, becoming a term on a tombstone. Tradition turning into a burden. When no one’s going—
—And where am I in the midst of all this? Where is my power and significance, where is my agency? Who has ever consulted me about what I want? They debate about asphalt, about a rock, about sand, if it has to be altered or moved. Discussions, considerations, public statements, negotiations. Haggling, backroom dealings, impact studies, The Army Corps of Engineers. Backup plans. When has my name ever been on a statement—?
—And will I ever find the time? I mean, it’s a great idea, it really is, it’s just what we need, to get us through, to get me through, but it requires planning, and preparation, and at least two full hours to get it done, for getting there, then going through the session, and then getting home, and I just don’t have the time to go to a non-attachment adviser. But OK, this is important, it really is, it really might help crack the patterns that deliver us grief, as the brochure says, so I decided I had to force myself to go, to just get over to Home Avenue, where this woman opened her office. I realized I had to make it cost me something if I didn’t go, to use that to insure I follow through, so I took out a subscription, I signed up for ten half-hour sessions, every other Wednesday. We’ll be starting next week, and I’m just like really happy with it, with making a real commitment to non-attachment—
Carol and Rick walk up Cherry Street. Fall sun adds oranges to light-blades from shop windowglass and chrome on cars. But most of the windows are dark behind, and the stores’ interiors obscured by outsized, boldly-lettered Sale! signs that have buckled like bellies or whose top corners curtsy to the tape stains they left above them. And few cars sit at streetside this mid-Monday afternoon, by meters whole rows of which wear hoods that chime: Free Parking Today.
Nearly empty buses pass, and crossing guards cultivate mid- int
ersection tans. Maintenance men wear gloves to lift single wrappers from wastebaskets; others hose down sidewalks into gutters that remain clean. The corner of Cherry and Church sports a complete stand of identical, white, unfastened bicycles.
Carol passes the specters of stores – Adriana’s, North Country Books, Ann Taylor – she once visited or saw but that remain as logos only.
Jesus, she says to Rick. Talk about negative feedback. The city’s keeping people away from itself. Who’d want to come here?
I was thinking just the opposite, Rick says. I like it better this way.
Come on—
At least better than Christmas Week, Rick says, and smiles. Actually, I think you’re wrong. I haven’t been down here in, I don’t know, two or three weeks, but I think there may be more people now. Well, a few more, I’m kind of surprised.
Congrats on officially having lowered your standards, Carol says.
They’re on their way to Battery Park, to meet Ian and a lead. Ian had found a job opening at a business in town – some kind of information-based company – and said that he knew the perfect person to fill it. He asked that they meet in the park, to keep his friend comfortable.
You know, Ian had said. First impressions. He’s not so used to offices that are inside and all.
—So wait: what was it? There was something, I’m sure of it. Something I had to, a call I should have …? I spoke with Andrew, I gave the keys to the shipping agent … So, what? It – I’m sure I – I know there’s something I didn’t … Did I leave a …? What. What the hell am I—?
—But he’s only a boy! He told me he’s ten years old …! I don’t know, he must have seen my car in the driveway … Please, isn’t there anyone in City Hall who – he’s in my living room!
OK, so but please, what’s your name? So Judy, thank you for – yeah, thanks for staying with … Yeah, I knew his parents, a bit, but what I heard was … Yeah, maybe around two months ago, I heard that he, the boy, that out of nowhere he ran away … He left the house – he left a note, and the parents, they’re Ellen and … Edward Post, also on North Union, he played the guitar, they, it was so, they fell apart … Really, I heard she in particular was … The police were there all the time, and she … One night I even heard her from here … I believe so, their only child …
No, I don’t know when he – if he’s been – he just rang the door five, seven minutes ago … Yeah, OK, he looks OK, though his clothes – and his hands are … No no, the parents, they’re – they’re gone maybe as of last month, I haven’t seen them in – that’s why he came here … Yeah, awful, poor … He’s quiet, he’s being very quiet … Don’t know, I don’t even know if he was able to get in his house – I gave him some cookies … Right, so isn’t there someone, some department in town that … Yeah, his name is Sam … So what should, how should …? I – I mean well, yes, I could, I’d love to, but I – we’re leaving on Saturday, in three days … Yes, we’re going … Yeah. OK, I’ll hold—
The meeting area, loosely defined, is the space between the Chief Grey Lock monument and the bandshell. Carol and Rick are a few minutes early; they find a bench and make themselves conspicuous, setting out a thermos and snacks. The friend arrives precisely on time, one thirty. A large man, he’s wearing a plaid shirt and plaid pants that don’t quite match, but a nicely fitting copper-brown jacket helps harmonize the two. Easily engaging, he comes right over and introduces himself, smiling and offering a powerful hand. His name is Ralph.
Carol and Rick talk about their business, its large hardships and small advances. But Ralph doesn’t say much about himself. Born in Milwaukee, he spent some time in Oregon, went to school in Carbondale, then, apparently, drifted until he made his way to A-burg. The absence of details tells Carol and Rick enough.
Point is, Ralph says, I’m ready – I’m serious – about a change. Really want to give something a go.
The conversation is animated and fine, but by one fifty – twenty minutes late – Ian still hasn’t showed. Carol confirms that Rick had given Ian the meeting-time, then asks Ralph if he’s seen him.
Sure haven’t, Ralph says.
They set in to talking again, but now the conversation is thinner: the Ground Round restaurant’s imminent closing, a rise in out-of-towners coming to take advantage of the remaining sales, weather. Carol wants to ask Ralph if he was among the people incarcerated in the private house with Ian, but doesn’t.
By ten after two, Carol and Rick are nettled. After all, this was Ian’s deal. He had found both the position and the employee, and they want him to stay with it, to feel it come together. To see his work work. Nothing could be better for him. Carol asks Ralph how much time he has.
Not a problem, he says.
Finally, at two twenty-five, Carol decides to risk tearing the scrim of OK-ness by calling Ian. Maybe something has happened. She pulls out her cell and dials Ian’s number.
An odd sound drifts among the group. Something low-toned, craggy, repetitive – a frog croaking. Rick smiles, then Ralph shifts and pulls his cell phone from his pants pocket. He holds it up to Carol and Rick, smiles as it croaks one more time, then answers. When he says Hello, Carol also hears Ralph’s voice through her phone.
She cuts the line. Fuck, she says, and puts her phone away. She looks in sweeps across the park, then down at the ground.
Funny, Ralph says. Yeah, Ian gave me this. Yesterday. He said I could use it in my new position.
—There. I put it up right there. Corner of King and Church, not a big corner, not a busy corner, but on its way to Main, which, of course, leads out to I-89. A prayer wheel, actually made in Tibet, which I bought during a trip to New York last year. I didn’t get any kind of permission, I just screwed its base onto the top of the newspaper vending machine there that isn’t used any more, between the wooden telephone pole and the garbage basket, and no one seemed to care, or even, really, to notice. And I’m sure that no one, or practically no one, knows what it is.
But they use it. I stand here and see it. People walking by, even people driving by, they get out of their damn cars and give the thing a spin. Just like the monks do, like they’ve done for thousands of years, during their rituals, lines of monks in purple robes walk through the temple and spin brass cylinders just like this one, suspended along a vertical axis. It’s like their prayer beads, or our rosaries, a means for learning and repetitive devotion.
But the people here, in A-burg, the people who use it, all the cars that stop with the people stepping out who reach and touch and send the cylinder into a gentle spin, making its gold sow white … What do they think they’re doing? They, or most of them, can’t be aware of the background. They can’t know its significance. Do they know what they’re participating in? Do they feel a need for circular movement …?
Still, they do it, they do …joining to the ritual of ritual, here empty, here voided, out of context, sadly misapplied, un-understood, even fraudulent, the nothing they’re understanding perfectly answering the everything they’re feeling. Reaching, touching, spinning – praying …
But such arrogance. Of course they understand what they’re doing. Spinning, answering, praying … They do it every moment of the day—
—And no voice, no sound, I know you can’t hear me, but now, here, stepping into my car, Jenny, dear Jenny … That time in Nantucket, in 1991, the August of the stroking winds, so long ago, yes, Jenny, yes I was with Roger, yes I was, twice when you were taking your scuba lessons, two Wednesday afternoons, you were right all along … And I am, and was, so very sorry, though if it makes a difference, there was something there, something real … Something so real that you sensed it right away … And now, here, closing my car door, sealing myself against pastness, now I can forgive you … Forgive you for believing me …
No: for forgiving me …
—And I am whirling now, rising and twisting, uplofting on eddies of air, no substance, no drag, fully pre-Giottesque, light as a smile, a keystroke, a crumpled tiss—
—It was kind of them to open the building for us today. Whoever they are. Last Sunday we didn’t get in. The few of us bunched in front of the big wooden door, but it didn’t budge. We knocked. We stood on the steps. Richard Clayton made a call. We went home.
It wasn’t a surprise. We were in church the week before that, that would be two weeks ago, but Father Hugh wasn’t. His time had come. He was always ambitious, he was late to the calling, his big baritone wanted to be heard, I’ll let that explain it. People stayed seated for nearly half an hour, waiting. Two weeks ago, without Father Hugh. Then we knelt and prayed. We went home.
There hadn’t been an announcement, two weeks ago. Father Hugh hadn’t said a word.
But we came back, today. Today it was nine of us, and an open door. We only have congregation on Sunday now. We sat down. Scattered among the pews like missing teeth. The silence was enough. We sat ten minutes. Then it became like a Quaker meeting. First one person, then another, stood up and spoke, in the quiet. It happened spontaneously. One gentleman rose to say thanks that his former biology teacher had survived an embolism. Another gentleman spoke on the meaning of friendship. He called it the justification of daylight.
I don’t believe either of these gentlemen is from Anderburg. I suppose they’re from Williston or Shelburne, nearby. But they come here to pray. They dressed nicely. Maybe they come to pray for us. Or they like to be so few. Maybe they think there’s still something holy here.
We also sing. Still. With so few people here, you become aware of your own voice. You hear it too close, become conscious of it. It sounds throaty. You think you’re alone. So some don’t sing. Which makes your own voice sound even closer. Constrained, just circling around your little you.
Maybe the non-singers don’t know the songs. But we chose easy ones, Creator of the Stars at Night, then Ye Watchers and Ye Holy Ones. But they still didn’t sing.
We had another participant, though. Macie, the orange and gray cat. A longhair. Macie’s her nickname. We don’t know her real name. Even if she has one. For years she’s made her way in, dusting the corners, grizzling your ankles. Until someone, most often Peter Quinn, our Brother of the Poor, put her out.