Sight Unseen

by Andrew Neiderman

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse said.

  David’s mother looked at him and then began to cry. She rushed to his side and embraced him. He held her, but he did not cry.

  He was angry. He could envision someone’s death before it happened, will a girl to turn her bare breasts toward him, find lost keys, identify the owner of a stupid little comb, sense danger for others, but he couldn’t help his grandmother when she needed him the most.

  He couldn’t remember his maternal grandfather very well. He had died when David was only four. And his paternal grandparents lived in Akron, Ohio and had little to do with his mother and him since his father’s departure. For as long as he could remember, his grandmother had been the strength in his household. At times he thought his mother was as dependent upon her as he was. She was as distracted and flighty as a teenager. He couldn’t even imagine what it was going to be like in his house now.

  He understood that to a much larger degree he would be in charge of himself. If he wanted a good breakfast, he would have to be up early enough to make it and to make his own sandwich if he wanted to take a lunch to school. He would have to learn to wash and iron his own clothing, clean and care for his room and, to some extent, care for portions of the house.

  His grandmother could forgive him for leaving his clothing about; his grandmother could chase him and insist he eat a decent meal; his grandmother could straighten up any mess he made without so much as a mild chastisement, but she was no longer there, and he had no one to blame but himself for not doing the right things.

  His mother did what he expected she would: She retreated into and welcomed the sympathy of friends who gathered around her in a council of self-pity. Her loss stimulated memories of their losses. Everyone had stories. He listened to them revel in the tales of woe. They came with sickening regularity during the period of mourning, bringing cakes and candy. The kitchen table was covered with dishes of sweets and boxes from bakeries. The women from the card and Mah-jongg games hovered about like flies, picking on this, pinching from that.

  He ate none of it. Sweets had become more than distasteful at this time; they were sinful. He had begun a period of penitence. He despised himself for his failure to help his grandmother at her greatest time of need. He would do nothing to please the body that had so failed both of them.

  He was kind only to someone like Mrs. Novak, someone who had been friends with his grandmother. To the other women and men who came, he was sullen and resentful. After their initial approach, they fled from him, fled especially from those wide eyes that reminded them of hot coals. There was an aura of heat about him. He looked like he had a fever; his face was flushed, and the palm of his hand felt like the outside of a hot water pipe. He made them feel guilty for being alive while his grandmother lay dead and buried.

  Soon after the funeral, he was at that graveyard. It was a five mile bike ride up some steep hills, but he was glad that his body had to struggle; he welcomed the pain in his thighs, pressing down harder and faster when the aching began.

  The first time he went, he stood at a good distance and stared at the grave marker for quite a while before edging up close to it. Once there, he said nothing. He stared at the letters and then left feeling numb. He had accomplished nothing. In fact, he had the strange idea that his grandmother wasn’t really buried there. Because he hadn’t felt her presence or heard her voice, he had difficulty believing that the graveyard was where her body and soul resided.

  The next time he returned, he returned more out of curiosity than anything else. Would he sense her? He wouldn’t accept the idea that death meant the end of her. Something had to have remained behind; something strong enough to identify her.

  He still felt her presence when he looked at her clothing in the closet and inhaled the scent of her body cremes and cologne. She was alive for him when he found strands of her hair still in the teeth of her comb in the bathroom. She smiled back at him in pictures, and in the rear of the lower shelf of the refrigerator, there was still a piece of the apple pie she had made the day before she died. He didn’t touch it, and his mother didn’t dare throw it out.

  Why couldn’t he feel her presence as strongly at the graveyard where her remains had been placed? Was it because he had not come to terms with the reality of her death and refused to acknowledge the event?

  She had never been away from him; she had never gone on a vacation or left to visit relatives. They had been separated for only parts of a day.

  Finally, on the third day after her death, the reality of it settled in. He awoke in the morning, thinking, and then praying that what had happened had only been one of his vivid dreams. Why wasn’t that possible? His dreams had been confused with reality more and more lately. Besides, if his grandmother was really going to die, he would have foreseen it. It made no sense that he was able to foresee Mr. Hoffman’s death, but not his grandmother’s.

  But the silence coming from the kitchen confirmed it. She wasn’t in there preparing his breakfast, and his mother, as usual, was not yet awake. He sat up and stared at the opened doorway, willing her to step into it. But nothing happened. Recent recollections, including the horror of the CCU, soon rushed in to fill the vacuum. All the morbid memories flowed freely, flooding him with the reality.

  He got out of bed quickly and dressed. He permitted himself a glass of orange juice, only as an obligation to his body machine, not as something desired because of the taste or the pleasure. And then, before his mother could come out of her room, he rushed out the back door, mounted his bicycle, and rode the five miles to the cemetery.

  The graveyard looked different so early in the morning. It was as if he had surprised the tombstones and monuments. The weaker sun, just rising over the east ridge, created longer, deeper shadows. But the shadows that he saw looked as if they emerged out of the stones rather than cast by them. It was what he saw within those shadows that gave him pause.

  Each one seemed to take the shape of the person buried below. It reminded him of the time he had wondered whether his shadow and the shadows of others were the reality and his body and the bodies of others were the illusion.

  As the earth turned and the sun moved up in the sky, the shadows contracted, but the forms within them hardened. Spirits were being born right before his eyes. Their longevity would be short, basically only until the sun was high enough to drive the shadows back into the stones.

  He hurried over to his grandmother’s grave. The shadow had taken her shape, even though there was no face to be seen. He stepped into that shadow and closed his eyes. Suddenly he felt as if he were sinking into the earth. The ground had become like jello. It wobbled and parted, but he dared not open his eyes. He knew that the moment he did so, he would return it all to the way it was, but he kept his eyes closed because he knew he could do that anytime he wanted.

  He sank lower and lower until he reached his grandmother’s coffin, only the lid was open and she was reaching up for him. She would embrace him. He saw she would take him down into the coffin with her, but he didn’t want to go to her.

  Her face was not the face of the grandmother he knew; it was the face of the grandmother who died. She was chalk white with pale pink lips. The pupils in her eyes had lost their shape and looked like punctured egg yolks, the blue liquid thinning out in the white. Her beautiful, soft white hair had been turned into something more akin to thin wire, the roots of which were blue like the tips of the flames in the gas stove.

  He halted his descent and she smiled.

  “Go back, Gypsy eyes,” she whispered. “Go back to the living, but remember, you mustn’t think you can do too much, and you mustn’t be afraid of what you can do. Promise me. Promise me. Promise me…” Her voice trailed off.

  “I promise!” he shouted and opened his eyes.

  As he expected, he was standing on top of her grave, and the shadows were nothing more than shadows.

  It was then that the tears really began. It was then that he felt the truth of her
death. It was then that he admitted to the reality of his own existence, an existence without her. Ironically, he felt stronger for it, and when he pedaled his bike home, he peddled with determination, speed, and strength.

  His mother was up, but she didn’t ask him where he had gone. She sensed it. She prepared a breakfast that wasn’t all that bad, and she told him that he should go back to school.

  “You are coming to the end of the year, after all, and it’s bad to miss these days. Grandma wouldn’t want that, David. You know she wouldn’t.”

  He nodded. Yes, he would go back. It made no sense to sulk in his room anymore.

  Some of his friends were sympathetic and concerned; some were a bit distant, not sure about how to act with a person in bereavement. All of his teachers offered condolences. In a school as small as his was, most everyone knew everything that happened. He tried to make it easier for everyone, tried to behave as though nothing had happened, but his own voice betrayed him, and his laugh was nothing like his real laugh.

  Nevertheless, he got through the day all right. It was when he left the school and started toward home that he became depressed again. He expected there would be mourners in his house, people there to comfort his mother.

  But as he crossed the lawn toward his home, he heard his name called and turned to see Ted and Diane coming out of the side entrance.

  “Where you going so fast?” Ted said as they approached him. “We saw you in the thirties corridor and tried to catch up.”

  “Gotta get home,” he said. Diane came right up to him and took his hand.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your grandmother, David.”

  For a moment, looking into her eyes, seeing the warmth and the sincerity, nearly brought him to tears. He swallowed hard and nodded. She’s so beautiful, he thought and wondered if it were sinful to think about her beauty while talking about his dead grandmother.

  “You gotta get right back into things, David,” Ted said. “It doesn’t do any good to think about it constantly. I know how I was when I lost my grandparents.”

  Once again, David felt this need to share feelings and experiences with an older boy. Did Ted feel anything like what he felt? Could they go somewhere, just the two of them, and talk about it?

  “He’s right,” Diane said.

  “I know.”

  “Why don’t you come along? We’re going for a soda at Chonin’s.”

  For a moment he was speechless. Go along? With them? He and Ted and Diane?

  “Sure, David. Come along,” she said smiling. She threaded her arm through his and pulled him close to her. His body tingled with excitement.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “That’s the Superman we know,” Ted said. He and Diane laughed, and he got the first hint of something unpleasant. They started toward Ted’s car, which was parked at the front of the school. Off to the right and down the sidewalk, he saw Merle and Carl involved in a box ball game. Suddenly it looked so childish to him to be doing that kind of thing.

  He got in beside Diane, just the way he had that first time they gave him a lift, and Ted started the engine. David put his books on his lap and folded his hands over them. Diane reached back and placed her right arm on the seat, just behind him. If he leaned his head back far enough, he would feel her arm. Her breast grazed his left arm, sending an electric warmth through his body and instantly reviving the memory of her standing by her window. He closed and opened his eyes quickly. As they pulled away from the sidewalk and down the street, Carl and Merle stopped their game and looked.

  “I was telling Diane about what you did for Westlake and Shatsky,” Ted said.

  “I think it’s fantastic,” Diane said quickly. He shrugged, but didn’t look at her. He was afraid that if he did, she would see everything in his face. How could she not? He felt it so strongly, especially this close to her. “How do you do these things?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “They just happen sometimes. I can’t always do it,” he added, shooting a quick glance at Ted. Ted turned the car into a driveway, stopped, backed out, and headed for Chonin’s.

  “Even so,” Diane said. “I think what you can do is fantastic. Have you tried anything else? When else have you been able to do it?” she asked quickly. He saw how interested in it she was, and that pleased him.

  “Last week, Mr. Rosenfield said he was going to give us a test on one of four kinds of math problems we had learned, and I knew which one it was going to be before we got the test.”

  “How?” Diane asked. “I mean, what did you do exactly?”

  “I opened the textbook and put my hand on each chapter, closing my eyes as I did it. And it just came to me, so I just studied that one.”

  “And that was it?” Ted asked. David nodded. “Jesus.”

  “You’ve got some talent, David,” Diane said. “It’s wonderful to have something so special.” He felt his face warm. All he could do was shrug.

  They pulled in front of Chonin’s and got out. As long as David could remember, Chonin’s had been something of a hangout for the high school kids, especially during the week. It was a big confectionery store, stocked with toys on shelves all along the walls, candy in cases and in bags hanging on racks, sundries and soda fountain. Every available space was used. The soda fountain wasn’t as long as Rosenblatt’s, but it was thicker and higher. Chonin’s was also the bus depot, so it was always busy, especially during the summer months when tourists from New York City came up to the Catskills to spend time in the hotels and bungalow colonies.

  The soda fountain was to the left of the entrance. There were three empty stools at the far right corner. They went directly to it, and Diane sat between him and Ted. Ted said he was treating and insisted David order an ice cream soda. They all had root beer floats.

  “I saw Buzzy’s neck,” Diane said, “right after he returned to school. He’s lucky he’s alive.”

  “He said he had to have a dozen stitches in his head, too,” Ted added.

  “I know,” David said. He didn’t want to talk about it for obvious reasons, but they thought it was because the event still frightened him.

  “No clues as to who did it yet,” Ted said. “All Buzzy could remember was the guy was taller. I asked him if he thought it could be Gerry Porter. He said Charlie Williams asked him the same thing.”

  “Did he?” David looked up with interest.

  “Yeah, but he couldn’t say.”

  “Every time I see Gerry Porter now, I get the creeps,” Diane said.

  “He’s not necessarily the one,” David said.

  “I know, but he always gave me the creeps anyway. Look at him,” she said.

  “I don’t think he’s the one,” David said suddenly, with a great deal more assurance.

  “How do you know? You know something? Sense something?” Ted asked.

  “Naw, it’s just a…” He stopped and Ted started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Diane asked.

  “That’s the way he explains all the things he can do,” Ted said. “Just a good guess.”

  “Oh.”

  “Maybe that’s all it really is,” David said.

  They all turned around when Westlake called to them. He had come in with Charlie Burger. Charlie had graduated high school last year and started working as a full-time mechanic and grease monkey at Skip’s garage, which was located just out of Centerville.

  Charlie had been a good athlete in high school, although he never played on any of the varsity teams. He stood six foot two and had long arms with thick forearms from working part-time as a mechanic most of his teenage life. He had been one of those students who did just enough to get by. Left on his own just about all of the time, he developed an earthy independence, smoked openly when he was only thirteen, hung around with upperclassmen, went with girls in other schools, and drove a car at night even before he had a license. He was forever talking about enlisting in the army, but now, especially with the Korean War still on, he wasn’t as e
nthusiastic about it.

  David couldn’t remember a recent time when Charlie looked clean. Even when he got relatively dressed up, there was a gray, greasy hue about his face and neck. There was often some stubborn paint or oil stain on his fingers, and his fingernails were always dirty.

  David noted that some girls didn’t seem to mind that, though. In fact, they acted as if it turned them on. Apparently for them, the dirty, weathered look gave Charlie an older, more experienced appearance. Although he was only nineteen, going out with him was like going out with an older man. He supported himself and now had his own apartment over Finkleman’s delicatessen.

  “Hey, you’re with Wonderboy,” Westlake said. Charlie laughed, and they came up behind Ted, Diane, and him. David grimaced and directed his attention solely to his soda.

  “You shouldn’t make fun of the guy who made it possible for you to take out the girl of your dreams, Westlake,” Ted said. Westlake wilted some and laughed nervously.

  “I was telling Charlie about it,” he said.

  “I got a comb in my back pocket,” Charlie said. “Found it yesterday in front of the garage.”

  “Ugh,” Diane said. “And you use it?”

  “Good comb,” he said taking it out. “Maybe little David here can tell us whose it is,” he added and laughed. He went down to the other end of the counter to talk to some people. Westlake pulled up alongside of Ted.

  “Charlie ain’t a believer,” Westlake said.

  “Yeah. Well, maybe we’ll show him a thing or two, huh, David?” Ted said.

  “I don’t know,” David said looking up quickly.

  “Oh yes, David,” Diane said. “Do something.”

  “I can’t do anything,” he responded, but the look of disappointment in her face softened his tone. “I mean, I don’t know what to do.”