American Genius

by Lynne Tillman

  For me, only a séance lies ahead, with its bizarre seductions, and I focus on it, conjuring the Rotunda Room and several faces and bodies convened around a dark wood round table. I’m wondering how the Magician will conduct it, if it has specific rules and rites, like a religious ceremony, when I hear my name shouted several times by what sounds like several voices, an unusual occurrence, since there’s an unwritten law, part of the honor code, that we residents shouldn’t raise our voices and interrupt another’s peace. They shout my name again, more insistently. I put on my robe and go to the window, there are some residents waving, “Come outside,” they mouth, so I gesture my willingness, but I don’t want to join them. They appear anxious, even stricken—JJ, the demanding man, the dour man, the fretful woman, the disconsolate young woman with asthma, and her friend, the Wineman, an unfortunate group, but at least there is no one of the staff, for which I am grateful, I fear bureaucracy and its devotees, and this must be spontaneous and ex-officio. Reluctantly, I pull on the clothes I recently discarded that lie in a mound on the floor, so the pants are wrinkled, and grab my one hundred percent virgin wool black coat, battleship-gray cashmere scarf, and furtively pat the crystal ball on the way out.

  NOW WHAT HAPPENS IS STRANGE and unbelievable, and, even as it happens, I can’t believe it or countenance it, even in this peculiar, portmanteau community, it is also unique in my experience, and their fervor, a group who acts like a mob, immediately offends my sensibilities, since generally I don’t appreciate outrage or moralisms of any sort from a group, and especially in a setting where we residents are encouraged to be ourselves, although that they are being themselves is a likely, unhappy fact. The demanding man speaks first. News has come to them about the séance of which they heartily disapprove and in which they want no part, they believe it’s wrong for our place to have such a thing happen “under its roof.” He repeats this phrase three times. I wonder if the Magician asked them to attend, though I doubt it, but some of them were in the main room when I left it, and someone must have stirred their communal bowl by dropping in the word “séance,” an unpredictable seasoning. The dour man objects to séances as voodoo, the fretful woman is offended by the idea that the dead might be raised and disturbed by the living, a more arcane objection, so, with deliberateness, I explain that they don’t have to be and aren’t involved, the séance is harmless, since it will be ineffective, and I don’t expect miracles, but the Wineman complains sourly that this kind of silliness brings bad karma, while JJ invokes the townspeople, who will know we’re crazy as loons, absolutely crazy. The demanding man insists our reputations must be upheld, and, if word gets out, if the townspeople and administration hear about this, it’ll bring disgrace. “There’ll be trouble,” the disconsolate woman reiterates, holding her stomach. I notice I have placed, in a cross, my hands over my heart, where a pressure or burden lives. Everyone has an opinion and speaks it, and, in this way, a democracy works, which is admirable, but in our democracy the rights of the minority must be protected, I think of Jefferson’s First Inaugural Address, “the minority possess their equal rights, which equal law must protect and to violate would be oppression,” but don’t mention it. Instead, I inquire why they care so much about what others think, a solemn question, but to it the disconsolate woman, whose asthma the cold, wet night air might bother, mutters, “You obviously don’t care about what people think, because otherwise how could you . . .” There she halts, tantalizingly, biting her lip, her face darkening or maybe reddening, but it’s nighttime and I can’t be sure. Unable to hold her tongue, though, she actually sputters:

  —You monopolize Gardner at dinner. He’s never shown me his Breguet.

  —But Helen, the dour man exclaims, it’s not that we don’t like . . .

  —I don’t like you, the demanding man vehemently interrupts.

  —That’s not the point, JJ objects.

  —What is the point? Is this any business of yours really? I ask.

  The disconsolate woman’s cheeks look pinched, and the Wineman are uncomfortable, shifting in place, and my skin is burning even in the cold.

  —It’s for the good of us all, JJ finally exhorts, not to engage in hocus pocus. It’s ridiculous.

  We stand there, in the cold night, the wind whipping us, they in a semicircle, I ‘m the isolate across from the group, but in at least two minds, one, I must assuage them, the other, I must ignore, pummel, or maybe vanquish them, though this seems extreme, so first I attempt the former with an appeal to history, specifically to the psychic or parapsychological history of the Rotunda Room, where spirit photography sessions took place, where séances were held, which celebrated poets attended, and this pleases the disconsolate young woman, whose grasp of history is likely meager and who, I have just been forced to acknowledge, is inflamed with jealousy about my relationship with the Count, which now threatens my peace of mind. I believe JJ is somewhat mollified.

  —Think of it as theater, I say directly to JJ, courting her.

  The demanding man is immune to my discourse or infuriated and scolds that the room’s history makes no difference, it was shameful doings then, it still is, and this silliness will bring disgrace, and even haunts us now.

  —It is silly and evil, he sums up.

  —How can something silly be evil? I ask him.

  He repeats his denunciation: the past infects us, haunts us in very bad ways. I again appeal to history, a recourse that’s generally a cheap trick, but I started it and can exploit it, with interest accruing from his old chestnut, since if the past haunts the present, I can press for its validity, for if a notion holds, if it remains resilient from one century to the next and impresses us still, then there must be something to it. With this, which isn’t necessarily true, the fretful woman looks as if she will explode with fury at me, the dispute, and her colleagues, she is certainly not the ringleader, and, unable to bear one more second of it, she shouts:

  —All right, all right, we’ve said it, let’s go, for God’s sake.

  They stride away in three different directions.

  I’m left alone in front of my residence, gazing at the peerless black sky with its uncountable stars, or dead planets, not thinking about stars in ways that interest me, until I can drag myself from my arrested position. I return to my bedroom, first carefully opening the door and then impetuously slamming it shut, where on the bureau my crystal ball and potions greet me silently, like my young wild cat who stands by the door when I come home, in the place I call home, and sometimes runs out, either to escape his fate or to play. Impulsively, I upturn the ball and watch the fake snow whirl and occlude the scene. I should prepare mentally for the séance, but I’m much less composed than before, after their hyperbolic and anxious warnings, readying me for tragedy or a flaunting of fate that might bring ruin, but I’m more intent upon it, not just because I’m obstinate and know my rights, or because it may be foolish or disreputable, all of those things, and now, in addition, by attending, I will solicit chance, which written history excludes regularly, but which art, science, and design count on, since mistakes or accidents pry open spaces for imaginative endeavors and uncover clues or keys, good and bad, for, as my design teacher insisted, “There are never stupid mistakes, only mistakes whose potential isn’t recognized.” I’m grabbing an opportunity or the ring of chance, exposing myself to risk, of what nature I’m not sure, nevertheless I visualize the righteous assembly again, the demanding man fulminating about evil, their stern faces, and, as I do, undress and dress again fast, pulling on the slightly but soft trousers, with my lucky Bauhaus button in the pocket, change my sweater to a purplish black gentle lamb’s-wool-and-cashmere pullover, no buttons, no hooks, nothing to catch, and, looking down, I slip on and tie my patent-leather-and-suede oxfords, while admiring their sleek lines. Even here, where I’m to rest and move on with my life in any way I see fit, I can’t take a step that isn’t blocked or threatened by others’ opinions or irrational responses, by characters who never admit th
eir failings or the deficiencies in their behavior, that their children are cruel, that their feelings can be dumb, that their experiences and emotions don’t trounce everyone else’s and can’t be recounted as gospel, that their dogs are vicious, like the ones who attacked a cat and whose owner thought domestic cats should fend for themselves rather than her leashing her aggressive, territorial dogs, that people mostly don’t listen, that they lie easily and fart, that they cover up and connive and will do anything to survive, rationalizing every sorry action, and those who don’t are martyrs and fanatics, and, regrettably, I have my lapses, remorse flagellates me, it’s my melancholic whip, because I can’t stop, but the fault can lie outside me in human and other obstacles, though the tarot card reader said I would meet an obstacle or person who would change my life soon, or maybe, I believe, I will overcome an obstacle, which could be embodied in a person. Still, I might be impeded by powerful or petty ambitions not my own, and, by the stars, I suppose, whose description is frequently prosaic and certainly inadequate, whose capacity for prediction or prophesy is beyond my comprehension and which I don’t accept. There are rumors, they abound, but few songs of ruin worth mentioning or remembering.

  It’s close to midnight on a dark and stormy night, and with this oddly reassuring allusion, I slip into my warm, virgin-wool black coat, down to my ankles, wrap my battleship-gray cashmere scarf around my neck twice, and march outside, hoping to suspend disbelief, since I don’t hold it in abeyance for other performances, unless they are awful, but I want mindlessness and mindfulness, too. I ‘m less worried about which residents will attend, as some of the worst have announced their disdain, so I can expect a congenial crew who have fewer prejudices, less fear, or more curiosity and recondite wishes. No one is in the main room, all the lights but one are out, I can’t see any of the photographs and paintings on the wall, there are some embers burning in the grand fireplace, and without hesitating I start toward the stairway to the Rotunda Room. I ‘m excited and scared, the way I was entering kindergarten, but then I walked beside my mother, who left me at the door and didn’t accompany me into the classroom to meet the new teacher, the way the other mothers did, I had to push open the heavy door and present myself alone, but my mother doesn’t remember this incident, along with mostly everything about me, except that I did things fast, and now she has little short-term memory through no fault of her own, but my mother remembers her name, my name, that her husband left her alone, and also our family cat, but not that she, without mercy, put the cat and my dog to death.

  Birdman crouches, in shadow, at the bottom of the stairs, he’s just driven in from the airport, returned from Italy, and smiles beatifically, showing his gold-capped front tooth, reminding me that he is mostly a happy man, seemingly not oppressed by severe complexes, except that he must care for any sick bird he finds, that he is driven, day and night, by worry for animals, sometimes he has become ill, his intestines in a twist for weeks, bordering on colitis, about the fate of a wounded baby sparrow or precious red-tailed hawk, and he buys worms or whatever food they eat and nurses them as if he’d birthed them. Birdman, or Desmond, lean, blond, and tall, his oval face set off by large navy-blue eyes, with dark lashes, his fingers long and graceful, has a good complexion, though somewhat sallow, but his skin is leathery from exposure to the elements, he probably doesn’t moisturize his skin as many men do. He asks why the lights upstairs are on, and I explain what’s happening, concerned about his response, since he might take exception, too, but he appears not to care.

  —I don’t tempt fate, he says.

  —Some of the residents are angry about a séance happening here.

  —Judge not lest you be judged, Birdman says.

  —Really? I ask.

  —Did you get my postcards? I sent four.

  It was Birdman, I realize with shock. Birdman.

  —I got three, one today, I say.

  —Just today? I mailed you four.

  —Just you?

  —Me and my shadow.

  No wonder his scratchy signature was familiar, residents sign in and out on a register and see each other’s first names daily, so I ponder Birdman, with brand-new eyes, that’s what my mother would say, brand-new eyes, consider his mailing me cryptic, thoughtful notes as he traveled far away from here, venturing in distant lands. The night we sat on a couch in the library, he told me he grew up in Bloomington, Indiana, radiated charm and helplessness, which allied with his determination and grit, and I liked him, then didn’t and did. His father was taciturn, kept secret his beliefs, since in his thirties Birdman’s father joined a white supremacist group, which offered his father’s flaccid white rage terrifying, subversive expression. Birdman was furious with his father, his mother, who was silent, then an impervious world that anyway engulfed their alienated patch. He wandered back in time, his eyes rolled to the left, reliving the war with his father, when any pity for the man turned into a violent hatred, as they watched, in the 1960s, the riots on television, Watts and Newark, because his father laughed and laughed, so Birdman stiffened into rebellion, did every drug he could get his hands on, fled at sixteen, traveled to Los Angeles, New York, then Austin, was a short-order cook, wrote plays, though he’d not seen one until he was twenty, and gave that up, also, when he rescued and cared for his first bird. Every gentle bone in him responded to that bitty mess of feathers, he said, he didn’t know himself, he was one with a baby sparrow, with its wounded wing, a tiny being who couldn’t fly, who needed him, but he needed the bird more, it was a white-throated sparrow, he soon learned, and, almost as a lark, he started a tourist company, with a partner, so he could travel and support himself and his avian causes, Birdman reveres even the relatively common raven, in some parts, he’s told me, it’s considered the prophet of birds, and, curiously, at least to me, he and the young married man, an ornithologist, have nothing to do with each other. Birdman no longer hates his father, who has Alzheimer’s disease and doesn’t know his son. He urged me, his sallow skin pinkening, to give up anything and everything, to leave it all behind, to follow my instincts, but I told him I wasn’t sure what they were. That night, he and I were stationary on the couch, intimate and sedentary, so long, we might have triggered a relationship of some kind, slow or fast, but it’s not wise or healthy to be involved in this community, it’s discouraged by the staff, and I’ve been in love, its terrain isn’t novel or untrodden. More, I hoped to sunder myself from, not adhere to, objects and people, to break things down into elements even senselessly, since I might discern something about an object’s integrity or necessity in the process or by its result, and now I might rather die for an idea, since there’s a liberty that chooses death.

  Birdman and I keep company at the bottom of the stairs, when a prolonged silence settles into a profound ambiguousness, so I stare at the floor, embarrassed the way an English person might be, recalling each of his three postcards and my not having a clue it was he who wrote them, I hadn’t once thought of him, and the mounting minutes cement our impossibility, so I swear off any further intimacy. With this, the spell breaks, some potential is buried, I can feel it diminish in breadth, collapse, and the loss of its potential and energy debilitates me. “I’d better go upstairs,” I tell Birdman, “since they’re probably waiting for me.” He nods, exhausted from the rapid rise and fall of intensity, and also because he suffers from severe anemia, in which the hemoglobin count in the red blood cells is very low, often dangerously so, hemoglobin is composed mostly of iron, which accounts for his sallow complexion. He and I would have been a mistake, this relationship another blot, most start as mistakes, with promise, they might have possibility, but they begin as accidents, any relationship in the universe is, some can’t be avoided, some are embellished, raided for treasure by a lover’s piratical need, drained and dropped, or taken up for life, people balance good and bad on a human scale usually weighted against the other, since they demand love, wanting more, rarely getting enough, wanting everything, and they can’t st
op themselves. I’ve teetered on the verge and gone over, when an imperious love, overwhelming and magnificent, raised me from despair to a blind ecstasy. But an intimacy’s death in infancy, like mine with Birdman, is irrevocable in my experience, which is, in a way, all I have, or nothing much at all.

  THE ROTUNDA ROOM IS LIT with an assortment of strategically placed and motley, unimportant small lamps, as well as tall, white tapered candles in brass candleholders, but the large room and its objects are mostly dark or in shadow, especially since the green damask curtains are drawn nearly to the bottom of the windows. On the stage, there are two artisanal metal candelabras from Mexico, and in front of the stage, a large, round walnut table that could be Mission furniture or a good copy. The sitters: the Magician, the Count, Contesa, Arthur and Henry, the Turkish poet, Spike, the young married man, the disconsolate young woman, our Felice, anorexic and psoriatic, the tall balding man, our Kafka, whose posture saddens me, and Moira, the odd inquisitive woman. The presence of the young married man and our Felice is a small surprise, which I appreciate. Without pomp, the Magician motions to a chair, one of the Green Lady’s, and, first moving its pillow into a better position, I sit down between the tall balding man and Spike, and everyone says hello in a manner unique to each, I remember the Turkish poet’s gold ringed hand touching his heart and Contesa’s fateful double wink. Then we, eleven of us, await instruction.