Unblinking

by Lenzo, Lisa;

  “What if we count him as one of the lost?” Thomas asks, not sure if he’s joking, or even what being one of the lost means.

  “That’s what you’re here to prevent,” Gerald answers, shifting his gaze to a fire-walk leader who is dropping another stick onto the coal bed. The stick smokes slowly, then creeps with flame. “Couple more minutes,” Gerald says. “I’ve got business elsewhere. Any questions before I go?”

  “Yeah,” Thomas says. “What am I supposed to do with this guy?”

  “Watch over him,” Gerald answers. “You’re his guardian.”

  “For how long?”

  “As long as he needs you.” Gerald begins to dissolve into the air.

  “But what if I don’t want to?” Thomas asks.

  Gerald smiles, his mind already gone, his soul fading.

  “I really don’t think I want to!” Thomas says, but Gerald has disappeared.

  “I want pie in the sky,” Thomas says, not sure whether he is speaking to Gerald or to himself. “That’s what I was looking forward to, not this—this is too much like life! This is work! This is not how I want to spend my death!”

  With enviable swiftness and precision, Gerald flies right in Thomas’s face. “There’s no pie up here. No coffee, either. And you better see that Jeremy doesn’t lose it, or you’re going to lose it.” Quick as a whirlwind, Gerald is gone.

  “Lose what?” Thomas says softly. “What are you going to do? Break my thumbs? Shoot my kneecaps?” He looks down at his insubstantial body and laughs. But his laughter is brittle and false, and he feels, somewhere near the center of his soul, a twisting in his cloudy heart.

  ⊙

  Jeremy makes it across the coals: mouth popped wide, huge hands flapping at his sides, but without injury to his size 14 feet. In the following weeks, his days are filled with nothing but good behavior—Jeremy doesn’t lose it once. But then, on a morning almost like any other, after searching for his wallet for fifteen minutes without success, Jeremy bellows, “I hate this! Life is full of crap!” He whips his keys down at the floor. The keys clunk as they nail the carpet. Then silence and stillness resume. The keys lie transfixed, as if under a spell, spread out like a pinwheel on their ring.

  Jeremy bends over the keys. Then he picks them up. The carpet is unmarred. Nothing is broken. No one has seen him or heard him—Jeremy’s wife is at work. Jeremy sighs with relief and slips the keys into his pocket.

  That was good! Thomas says. No harm done, and you let off some steam.

  A week later, Jeremy comes home from buying groceries to find his wife’s cat preparing to retch: the runty animal is dry-heaving with its mouth aimed at the kitchen rug. Quick! Snatch her up! Thomas says. Jeremy sets down the grocery bags and strides lightly toward the cat, calling her urgently yet gently, his arms outstretched in a reassuring manner.

  The cat whips her face toward Jeremy, freezes with a look of panic, and streaks into the living room. Thomas laughs. Jeremy curses and hurries after the cat, forcing his big feet to tread lightly, without threat. Thomas follows Jeremy, ready to offer more advice, but, rounding the corner of the L-shaped room, he sees the cat vomiting on the plush carpeting. Oh, sick! Thomas thinks, turning away, hoping his weak stomach hasn’t followed him into death. To be safe, he keeps his back to the room, humming to himself while Jeremy shouts.

  “Little Darling! Come here! Stay there!” Jeremy tries to reach the cat, but just as he touches the outer wisps of her fur, she slips from his big hands and runs; stopping under the coffee table, she resumes her rhythmic spasming. Jeremy waits for the cat to finish. Then he snatches her up. “You stupid, stupid cat,” he says. “I only wanted to put you outside before you ruined the damned rug!”

  Afraid she might not be done vomiting, Jeremy holds Little Darling at arm’s length with both hands and carries her to the door leading to the stoop. There he clamps her under his left arm like a football so that he can unfasten the bolt with his free hand; but as he fumbles with the lock, the cat squirms to face his chest and clings, piercing shirt and flesh as if they are tree bark. By the time Jeremy has managed to get the first door open, the cat is almost out of his grasp, writhing and clawing backward up his left shirtsleeve and arm. Jeremy unlatches the second door; propping it open with one big foot, he takes the cat firmly in both his hands. He has an excellent grip on the cat now, but he doesn’t want to hold her another second. He also doesn’t want to let her go. As if on its own, his right thumb slides over the cat’s windpipe.

  Thinking he had better put a stop to things, Thomas flutters into the kitchen. But when he sees the tiny cat gripped by Jeremy’s huge hands, he says something opposite to what he had intended: You could wring that cat’s neck like a chicken.

  Jeremy freezes like a statue, like a still-frame from a strangler flick. Then, all at once, he wilts, tension draining from his big body and his face. He holds his arms out limply and drops the cat. She lands, without grace but lightly, on her feet.

  Jeremy drags himself back to the living room, collapses onto the couch, and begins moaning silently, as if from the depths of his soul.

  Oh, stop it, Thomas says.

  Despite such directness, Jeremy thinks he is talking to himself. He’s been talking to himself a lot lately, he’s noticed—ever since he went on that fire walk.

  So you almost killed your wife’s cat, so what? Thomas says. Didn’t you ever almost kill a cat when you were a boy?

  No, Jeremy admits.

  Then consider yourself a late bloomer, Thomas snaps. He feels like flying off and never coming back; he wishes he were the guardian angel of someone else. Somebody more exciting, or at least more exciting to look at—every day on the street Thomas sees women he’d rather follow. But, even though he doesn’t like to admit it, as sorry a human life as Jeremy seems to lead, Thomas is jealous of it. Yesterday at the hospital, when one of the female nurses laid her arm across Jeremy’s back and whispered something and Jeremy laughed, Thomas was sick with envy. He wanted a life, any life at all. If he had one, he wouldn’t waste one minute of it chasing after a vomiting cat, much less moaning about it afterward.

  But Jeremy can’t seem to get off the subject. At least I didn’t hurt Little Darling, he thinks.

  That’s right, Thomas says, trying to wrap things up.

  I almost threw her, Jeremy thinks, and I considered strangling her, but I didn’t—I stopped myself in time. Maybe yelling is okay.

  Of course it is, Thomas says. You’re not a saint.

  But Jeremy is not consoled. He tightens his half-curled hands until they become enormous fists. What am I going to do with myself? he asks.

  You could take up boxing, Thomas suggests. It’s not too late for a professional career.

  I already have a career, Jeremy answers.

  Or you could get a job as an enforcer. It wouldn’t have to be a career, it could be a hobby.

  Jeremy shakes his head. That’s not what these hands are for.

  Oh, yeah? Thomas says, miffed at being rebuffed. Then what are those muscled, massive hunks of flesh you call hands for?

  For massaging my patients, Jeremy says. He opens his hands and wiggles his fingers, his face reflective. For riding my bike.

  For picking flowers, Thomas says. For scratching your crotch.

  Jeremy smiles, amusement softening his troubled features. For touching my wife, he says. For handling everything gently. He gets up from the couch and goes out to the kitchen and starts unpacking the groceries: a bunch of kale, a tub of tofu, several boxes of herbal tea.

  How come you never buy any coffee? Thomas says. You know you like it. Strong. Black. With bacon and fried eggs.

  Jeremy unbags a package of rice crackers and a carton of frozen yogurt.

  And what about pie? Thomas says. A piece of pie every now and then isn’t going to kill you.

  Jeremy opens the freezer door and peers into the frosty white space.

  I’m warning you, Thomas says. You better start eating pie now, while yo
u’ve got the chance, because there isn’t any after you die.

  ⊙

  A week later, Jeremy rides off on his motorcycle to buy a special lunch for his sick wife. He is on his way home, riding through town with the boxed lunch strapped to his bike, when a Subaru pulls out of a parking lot and turns directly behind him. Thomas is flying above. Uh-oh, he says. That woman doesn’t see you, and she’s way too close.

  Jeremy checks his mirrors. The woman in the Subaru is right on his tail. Barely tall enough to see over the steering wheel, she’s looking out the driver’s window and waving to someone on the sidewalk. Jeremy is riding at twenty miles per hour. He pushes the bike up to twenty-five. He can’t go much faster because there’s a red light at the next corner.

  The woman driving the Subaru also increases her speed. She is still waving good-bye, turned halfway around in her seat. She hasn’t even glanced at the street ahead of her.

  Thomas shouts at the woman, but she doesn’t hear him—she’s not paying attention to anything! Steady, he says to Jeremy. Oh, no—hold on tight! The Subaru taps the back of Jeremy’s bike, and the bike leaps into the air. Keep her steady! Thomas shouts, and Jeremy does; he keeps the bike pointing straight ahead.

  The bike lands on its tires and continues to roll, but as it lands it compresses, bottoming out on its springs, and at that moment the Subaru taps the back of the bike again and slides up onto the seat, tilting the bike backward so that it’s doing a wheelie.

  The bike and the Subaru are locked like mismatched mating dogs, the bike still in wheelie position, the car’s bumper on the back of the bike seat and its front wheels spinning in air—the horror-struck woman has her foot on what she thinks is the brake, and she’s holding the pedal to the floor.

  The Subaru’s front wheels spin in the tractionless air, and the car bumper creeps forward over the upward-slanting bike seat, slowly pushing Jeremy forward. Steady! Thomas shouts. Keep holding her steady! And Jeremy does. But the car continues to inch forward, digging into Jeremy’s back, until the bike levels out, its front wheel finally coming back down onto the pavement, and Jeremy is squeezed between the car and his bike, his balls pressing the bike’s gas tank.

  You can’t stay with it any longer! Thomas screams. Get out of there—lean back now!

  Jeremy leans back against the hood, but as he lifts his legs over the handlebars, the woman slams on the brake, and Jeremy is launched, feet first, ten feet into the air. The car closes halfway over the fallen bike and finally stops. Jeremy comes down a few yards up the street. He lands hard, but on his feet; he doesn’t fall—he doesn’t even stutter-step. His size 14 shoes grip the pavement, and his extra-large hands, spread at his sides, give him the balance of wings.

  Jeremy stares out through the visor of his helmet without moving from where he has landed. He turns his head toward a man on the sidewalk who has stopped walking his dog. Jeremy and the man stare at each other open-mouthed, the man slowly shaking his head. Thomas forgets to flutter his feet and almost falls out of the sky. He recovers himself and follows Jeremy as Jeremy stalks back toward the Subaru.

  The tiny woman is still sitting in the driver’s seat, her window rolled up though the day is warm. “Fuck,” Jeremy says, looking down at his bike protruding from under the Subaru. The bike is mangled beyond repair. It’s almost cut in half. “Fuck!” Jeremy says again, louder, looking around without focusing.

  Then he begins to jump around. As soon as he comes down, he jumps up again, leaping up and down and sideways, too, around to the front of the car where his bike lies, then back to the driver’s window. “You could have killed me!” he shouts. “You almost did! And look what you did to my bike! Just look at it! It’s trash!”

  Stopping to gaze in amazement at the crumpled components of his bike, Jeremy notices the smashed box containing what’s left of his wife’s lunch. “And my wife’s lunch!” he croaks, his voice breaking. “You ruined my wife’s lunch!” He stops at the driver’s window and glares in at the glass-shielded woman; she gazes back at him with the dulled, blank look of utter fear.

  Jeremy takes his helmet off and grips it in his right hand by the chin strap.

  Whoa! Thomas warns. You don’t want to do that!

  Jeremy doesn’t seem to hear. He eyes the windshield, the helmet swaying in his grasp.

  Jeremy! Thomas shouts. Remember what you said? What you said your hands are for?

  Jeremy’s grip on the helmet loosens. He chucks it behind him and looks up at about twenty people staring at him from the curb.

  Thomas feels the air stir beside him. “Well,” Gerald says, “that’s it, I guess.”

  “What do you mean?” Thomas asks.

  “He’s done for,” Gerald says. “He really lost it good.”

  “What are you talking about?” Thomas says. “He was going to break the windshield, but he stopped himself! Didn’t you see him right now chuck his helmet into the street?”

  “I saw him leaping all over the street like a giant frog gone berserk,” Gerald says, “screaming and swearing, nearly scaring that little woman to death.”

  “Well, what about what she nearly did to him?” Thomas counters. “If he hadn’t kept his wits, he’d look like his bike now! He’d look like his wife’s lunch! Besides, I told him yelling was okay.”

  “I know you did.”

  “You’re not going to hold that against him, are you?” Thomas asks. “You’re not going to punish him, are you, after that miraculous escape?”

  “He set his own terms,” Gerald says. “He dug his own grave.”

  “He said he was afraid of losing it, he didn’t promise that he wouldn’t!” Thomas protests. “Besides, did you see how he landed? He landed on his feet! The man flew like a bird—he flew like a fucking angel! And he landed on his feet! We should give him a medal!”

  “Please lower your voice,” Gerald says. “And stop swearing.”

  “Congratulations, Jeremy!” Thomas shouts. “I’m damned proud of you! You did a hell of a job!”

  “One more outburst and you’re in as much trouble as Jeremy. Already things don’t look too good for you.”

  “I don’t believe this!” Thomas says. “He might as well have smashed the windshield!”

  Jeremy picks up the helmet.

  “Stop him or you’re in deep,” Gerald says.

  Thomas laughs. “In deep? I’m already in deep—I’m dead!”

  Gerald grabs Thomas by his quivering heart.

  Jeremy! Thomas shouts. Jeremy!

  Jeremy glances around him. He looks at the crowd of people on the curb, then at the windows of the buildings lining the street, then straight up, at the sky. Squinting against the sunlight, he hurls the helmet high with all his might. The helmet speeds toward Gerald and Thomas like a comet. It strikes Gerald in the pit of his hollow chest. Gerald lets out a cry like the honk of a goose and disappears into the air.

  A siren wails. A police car arrives. Jeremy is standing in the middle of the street. “That woman ran into me—she almost killed me!” he tells the older of the two policemen. “And then I heard a ghost calling my name. I threw my helmet at him to scare him off, but he’s still hanging around, I can feel him, I know I can, he’s right behind me!”

  Thomas edges over an inch and shrinks in on himself.

  “Try to calm down,” the policeman says. “You’ve had a near-death experience. Naturally you’re upset.”

  That’s right, Thomas agrees.

  Jeremy shakes his head as if to rid himself of a waking dream, and bends over what’s left of his motorcycle. He grasps a crumpled fender and tugs on it softly, as if he thinks he can lift his bike like a piece of crumpled foil, and it will magically release all of its crimps and folds and be as smooth as when he first saw it in the window of the dealer. As Jeremy fingers the mangled fender, two thoughts reach him at once: I almost died—I have twenty payments left.

  Don’t worry about losing your bike, Thomas tells him. And “almost” dying doesn’t coun
t.

  Oh, Jeremy thinks, his failure hitting him all at once, I almost lost it completely. He looks down at his trembling hands. I did lose it—I lost it bad.

  You didn’t lose a thing, Thomas says. You had a car gnawing your back like a shark, you flew through the air like a dead man, and you ended up alive and without a scratch.

  But I almost killed that little woman, Jeremy protests.

  So what? Thomas says. That woman deserved to die, driving the way she did. But she got out of it, and so did you. You get another chance.

  Jeremy exhales a cloud of stale breath. He scans the street, trying to see beyond the people still staring at him from the curb. Some of the faces are solemn, some are curious, and others are watching him in wonder, as if he’s come back from the other side of the veil. Jeremy feels as if he has returned from that border, and as if everything around him—the street with its sprinkling of glass, the heat of the sun on his face, the grit caught up by the warm breeze—is more tangible and visceral than he remembers it being. He squats down and fingers a piece of sharp-edged bright mirror.

  Don’t be afraid, Thomas says. Walk away from this wreckage. Enjoy your life.

  Then Thomas turns away and rises into the sky. He has no idea of where he is going, and he doesn’t care—it feels indescribably good simply to move through the air. Yes, to fly! Before he died, he only imagined flying in his dreams.

  Jeremy feels suddenly alone. Pressing a knee to the street, he slips the shard of mirror into his pocket and remembers riding his bike fast: zooming north, no destination, leaving all he’s ever known behind him. He vows to ride like that again.

  But first, he’ll buy his wife another lunch. And also something for himself: lemon meringue, or coconut cream. Rising to his feet, Jeremy glances up and down the street, looking for a restaurant, and a bakery.

  To the Destroying Angels

  I remember watching Darwin gliding back to England on The Beagle, fishes swimming beneath the ship as he sailed for home, birds flying overhead and, in the boat’s hold, all those dead animals and notes and other evidence that God does not exist.