by Evan Dara
Still, he isn’t sure how active the stain is. Could be it’s been seeping for months – for years – and Marcus hadn’t noticed. Could be it only dates from when he opened the window, for Baker. Regardless, he’ll deal. Now John Maxwell is waiting, unnecessary but still useful, spread wide on his main table.
—
Should he just approach people on the Street, and ask if they know someone who might be interested (and qualified)? Should he set up a table downtown, with photocopied info and platters – multiple platters – of butter cookies? (Also snack vegetables: increase the chances of a fit.) Might there be a way – and, yes, this way could take the form of a check – to get City Hall to leave his signs in place? Or he could offer to pay, à la a license fee, for every sign he puts up. Up to, say, two hundred.
Great stuff. Really impressive. He’s doing all this on the fly. He’s learning more than he could imagine.
—
His clarity.
His patience.
Thermostats.
His fecundity.
Capability Brown.
Yes, Laura Linney, in just about everything except Jindabyne.
The general correlation of evening and quiet.
A universe that contains both backs and fingernails, and has arranged for them to meet.
Mountains at the sea.
Thought-stickiness.
Omnilectic synthesis.
Trial not followed by error.
A world now ready for his—
—
He will go back to jogging. Has wanted to since the late Nineties. The sweet hurt in the calves. The sweat that finds crevices in his back and chest. Not in place of his re-constitutionals. In addition to them. Twice a week, mornings. Three times a week. He has that energy. G has given him that energy. For super-re-constitutionals.
—
He will walk through town with a balloon. He saw this once. A large purple balloon, floating atop a four-foot cord. People just naturally came up, joked, asked, jested, smiling—
—
Better. He will take streets, backstreets, and walk around with his nose in a map. He will have the map in front of his face, lower it to chin level, scan the area, bring the map back up. Eventually someone will approach. He or she will come over to help, to offer advice. This will select: the ones who instinctively volunteer, the good ones. Cooperation will be natural, spontaneous, warm.
—
These are the ones he’ll ask for leads – on an assistant.
—
Pretend to be lost, get found.
—
He will take – it’s been a thought, a dream, for years – cooking classes. He will make a good Panang curry. It will be great.
—
He’ll also study Sumerian cosmology, their idea that the ‘weight’ of the creator-force remains in all things, but is invisible – and how that reflects their belief that intelligence, human intelligence, is located in the ear.
—
Does that relate to the gamelan, where the orchestra’s anvilly clangor, badly out of tune to Westerners, embodies the Indonesian creed that God is found in dissonance—?
—
His G-energy is becoming limitless.
—
The next morning he opens e-mail, finds a sender he never thought he’d see. He quickly clicks on the message:
Dear Mr. Carter;
Thank you for your inquiry. Please find attached the Handbook of Rules and Statutes for the Incorporated City of Anderburg. Chapter Seventeen sets out the laws, requirements and guidelines for running for the Office of Mayor. Any legal resident of Anderburg may—
Marcus turns in his chair. He looks upon his handsome living room, the couch, the tables, the tidy but unruly stacks of books, notepads, printouts …
It is happening for him. It is happening—
—
But he stays with the source. The wellspring of, for starters, everything. That’s why he’ll run for A-burg mayor. To facilitate his Center. To access land, resources, buildings, tax angles …
He gives this Friday afternoon to theory, to his anatomization of the G stages. It’s a series of Eriksonian transits, movements up a hierarchy that reveals no such hierarchy exists. The stages marry wisdom to experience, subjectivity to neurophysiology:
1. Paleozoic: the individual as dark matter
2. Exordial: acknowledgement of the other
3. Threshold: acceptance of the other as subject
3a. Germinative: affirmation of the other as subject
4. Felt: first contact with G force
5. Known: internalization of multiplying G forces
6. Lived: adoption of G experience
7. Dissolution: submission to full G praxis—
Marcus twists his chair, closes his eyes. Savors a slow exhaling. He can not believe what he has done. What he has discovered. It is resonant. It is powerful. His Center will be a major, a global step forward. Advances, applications will be enormous, unending. He must ride it as far as it will take him, do whatever is necessary. He will find an assistant to help him find an assistant.
Marcus laughs, opens his eyes. Gets up from his chair and walks into his kitchen, to heat water for coffee. There’s a knock at the door.
It’s a surprise, but he puts down his kettle and goes to the knock, goes to his front door. He pauses before it, then opens. Stops short, for a second, at the first plash of cold, cold air.
I come in?
Marcus looks at the avocado-green wool cap, the brown striped mittens.
Sure, he says.
Carol enters the vestibule. Looks around, smiles, pulls off her mittens. Reveals this to be the first step towards removing her coat and hat.
Hey, Carol says. How you been.
How about you?, Marcus says. You gone anorectic or something?
Yeah, Carol says, and smiles. No, I’m fine. I don’t think I’m losing weight or nothing.
But thanks for asking, she continues. Means I ain’t gaming it.
Marcus takes her things, hangs them on the curvy hook. He somersaults his hand, and Carol follows the gesture towards his living room. Then follows a second gesture to the woven couch. Marcus sits at his worktable.
So, Carol says, settling in, keeping her hands in her lap. Haven’t seen you around so much.
I been here, Marcus says. Get out every night. At least every night.
Carol nods. Been, what, like a year?, she says. Since we’ve seen—
Could be, Marcus says. Been extremely busy. You?
You know a good way of saying Next question?, Carol says.
She looks to her left. But, you know, she says. I’m good. Getting there.
Marcus nods.
So, Carol says, looks down.
Marcus picks up a pencil. You see any of the signs?, he says.
Carol looks up. Signs?, she says. Hey, there’re signs everywhere. Signs of life, signs of—
About a job. Marcus moves a notepad on his worktable.
Oh, Carol says. Nah. I got a job.
Ah, Marcus says. Nice.
Yeah, Carol says. Surviving.
Mm.
Yeah, Carol says. It’s a full-time position.
Hm, Marcus says.
But no benefits, says Carol.
Yeah, Marcus says.
I mean, you see what’s happening.
Mm. We gotta be about the only ones left.
So it seems, Carol says. Except for, like, all the thousands of others.
Marcus smiles. Yeah, he says.
Carol smiles back. You still listen to those torch singers?, she says.
Oh yeah, Marcus says. Some things don’t—
Papa Haydn?
Not so much.
Carol twists in her seat. Scans the room, returns her attention to her hands, incurled on her lap. Was looking at some pictures last week, she says. The trip to Montreal? The one to Lancaster?
Mm.
Those P-Dutch, man. Really fr
iendly. I read they’re some of the best farmers in the country, at least some of the most ecological. Use very little toxics and get great yields. And, well …
She exhales. Shoo-fly pie, she says.
Marcus smiles. He gets up, goes to his kitchen, turns off the coffeepot flame.
Hey, Carol says. I see you still got The Very Clever Crocodile.
She had picked it up from the workdesk while Marcus was away.
Oh, man, she says. I’ve always loved pop-up books.
She opens the cover, turns leaves, smiles as the rainbow pages surge and bloom, far above the glum writhes of gray text.
Yeah, Marcus says, returning to the living room. It’s a good one. Something you can read with Rick.
Carol flinches. Then regains and angle-looks at Marcus. Hunh …?, she says.
Yeah, Marcus says. At his level.
I don’t believe—
Just bring it on over to the couch with him.
Carol stares. Marcus—
Sorry, he says. Forget …
’S nothing, he says.
Carol puts the book down. Sits back where she had been. Looks at her hands, then looks up.
How’s your daughter?, she says.
Marcus is now sitting at his desk.
Come on, man. How’s she doing?
Marcus looks at Carol.
I ask you something?, Carol says.
Marcus keeps looking.
What’s her name?
Marcus rakes his fingers through his hair. What are—?
I could never make it out in the book, Carol says. Here.
She picks up the pop-up book again. Opens to the title page. Peers at its top right corner.
What is it …Anna?, Carol says. Inge?
Marcus looks down. Something like that, he says.
She still in Chicago?, Carol says.
Marcus remains looking down. Now you’re being cruel, he says.
Come on. By now it’s just curiosity.
Well, aim your curiosity—
Wouldn’t you be curious?, Carol says. I mean, just a little bit? It’s not like I ever met the girl. Or even heard about her.
Carol is staring at Marcus. Over the four years, she says.
Marcus stands, goes, leans against his bookshelves. Turns to look at Carol.
I mean, her name – or something – was, is, right here in the book, Carol says. Right after To Papa. That I could make out.
Carol—
I assumed because that was written by someone else, Carol says.
Marcus stares.
Your ex?, Carol says.
Your other ex …?, Carol says.
Carol, Marcus says. You do not have to—
I mean, Marcus, you surprised? Are you really surprised?
Carol holds the closed book in her lap. You left traces everywhere, she says. The reports. The diagnoses. That scary letterhead with all the names and all the comma MDs. On your desk, in the kitchen – in the bathroom. All just everywhere. It was like a compulsion. Like you wanted me to find them.
Marcus turns away. Then turns back. He looks alongside Carol, then across the room.
Why did I know this would happen, he says. How was I absolutely sure that you would come crawling in here the first second it suited your purposes.
You tell me, Carol says.
Marcus returns to his desk, looks down, sits. Picks up an ink-scored notepad. You can go now, he says.
Huh?, Carol says.
It’s time for you to go.
Carol stands, puts the book on the couch, hooks her thumbs in her pants pockets. Looks at Marcus.
Better that way, he says.
Marc—
Carol, you’re only here because you have no other place to go.
What?
Because you have no one left to go to.
Are you—?, Carol says. Right: you, and the like hundreds of others.
I’m the last port with a light on.
Carol ruffs her hair. Takes a step. Man, you think that and you are way off. Way, way off. Where do you—?
I don’t see Rick out there waiting in the car.
Wait. What …? Rick …?
Carol stamps a foot. Rick and I, we’re still together. We’re still totally hanging out. I’m with Rick all the time.
Come on—
Absolutely, man. Yeah, he’s in Atlanta, but we are still absolutely a couple.
Carol—
I mean, not like here, man. Not like here. You pitch me out and I’m eight minutes up Prospect Street but that’s the end. The end forever. Marcus, man, distance is for pussies.
Marcus puts down the notepad, picks up a white book, looks into it.
So OK, then, he says. You have Rick. There you go.
Exactly.
Exactly. Go breed with him.
Carol looks at Marcus.
As you said, he’s your man, says Marcus, turning a page in his white book. Bright guy. It’s your chance.
Marcus—
Your chance to do this fucking right.
Carol steps back, leans against the couch’s armrest. Looks at Marcus, looking in his book.
Marcus, man, she says. I mean, that was never a concern, OK? Not for a minute.
Marcus is looking in his white book.
Marcus, it doesn’t happen that way, Carol says. Autism doesn’t come from genes, as best anyone knows. I mean, do you have it? Anyone else in your family? There’s, max, a six percent correlation between siblings, and one study put it as little as two-point-nine percent. OK? The numbers are insignificant. And that’s for full siblings. There are too many variables.
Marcus closes his book. Its cover, closing, makes a dull clop. He looks at Carol.
Best thinking?, Carol says. We get it from shots. From attempts to protect ourselves.
Carol slides down the armrests vertical to sit in the corner of the couch. She looks to her knees, newly bent. Marcus, man, she then says. I mean, it never – not for one second did it make a difference. I knew all about it, from like the first month we were together, and I was still willing to go ahead. Even, like, in total silence. For me, with you, it was worth it. No question.
Carol exhales. I mean, life is risk, she says. Risk is one thing worth risking yourself for.
She rubs the side of her face, looks up. Jesus, Marcus, she says. The smarter you get, the more stupid you become.
Carol looks down, nods to herself. What can I tell you?, she says. Hate me, OK? I, like – I just want to leave something behind, OK? Something that might do better than we’re doing. Than I’m doing. Anything wrong with that?
Marcus stands. Puts a hand on his worktable.
Carol continues looking down. Again wipes the side of her face.
Hey, Marco mio, she says. I miss you, man.
She looks up. Where you been?
Carol looks at her hands, flexing and curling on her lap. Then stopping.
And I understand – I mean, I really understand your not wanting to bring another child into the world, she says. This I get completely. It’s the world that’s autistic, man – lacking empathy for people’s feelings, not good at communicating verbally, never asking for help. The sublettors are perfectly adapted.
Carol looks up, searches out Marcus’ eyes. Finds them.
Sorry, man, she says. Sorry for the drama. OK?
You OK with that?, she says.
Marcus nods.
Carol looks down. Let’s just be content with what we have, she says.
Just really acknowledge everything that’s truly there for us, she says.
It’s enough – it’s always enough, she says. It’s a perfect, it’s the best possible fit. The only reason we don’t think it’s enough is that we’ve got so much more than enough that we can’t see back down to what enough is.
She gets up. Smoothes down her pants.
Good to see you, she says, and turns towards the door. Always nice to be in touch.
Marcus follows her. Puts his han
d on her right shoulder.
They reach the vestibule. Marcus gives Carol her coat and hat, sees her put them on, then her mittens, withdrawn from her pockets. She smiles, they hug, then she is outside, after the blast of cold air. Marcus looks at the inside of his front door.
He returns to his kitchen, puts on hot water. Waits for it to boil.
Dinner that night will be something nice. Marcus has the larger, weekend, two-day delivery, and he rummages through the bag looking for interesting new combinations. Even the sounds of the fruits, legumes, and vegetables, slapping paper, stumbling among one another, are pleasing. Appetizing. He chooses a fun assortment, and in two instances – apples and chestnuts – takes a little more than usual.
He puts the large pot on the front burner, and a few mung beans hit the hard tiles of his floor. They’re uncooked, pellet-like, and so bounce, and make sharp noises, go skittering away. Now more come, a pour of them, a small avalanche, all clicking and chattering across the kitchen horizon, and Marcus, on one knee, grabs the edge of the countertop, at the level of his head. He brakes himself, stops his trajectory, breathes and blinks and forces himself to look up, straight ahead, in his stopped trajectory.
Three minutes later he is out the door, scarf and gloves going on as he parts from home. It’s that night’s constitutional, improvised, rapid, and immediately he sees why. The night is quiet and whippingly chilly, but there is no snow. And that’s just great: freakish, no accounting for it, but even this late in December, there is no snow. He is glad to be out among it, the no snow.
He walks the streets briskly, arms pendulums, parka squeaking. He crosses Willard Street, sees Isham Street, turns up Booth, passing the rows of simple, silent, woodframe houses that lead beyond Pomeroy Park and up to North. His footsteps snicker on the pavement, then turn to sifting sounds when he cuts across the lawngrass of a small two-story home. Decelerating, he joins the house’s walkway just before its front door.
He does not pause, just presses the doorbell with the soft of his thumb. He hears old-style crackly buzzing, then nothing more. He hits the bell again, and again waits. He looks around – towards the sides of the house, back to the street – then opens the screen door and knocks against the main wooden door with his mid-finger knuckles, softened by gloves. He knocks again, several times. Pauses, waits. Waits for lights or creaks or footsteps.