Skyscape

by Michael Cadnum

  You can trust nothing, Bruno wanted to tell her. Faith was composed almost entirely of self-deception. “Let’s imagine the future,” he said. “Let’s imagine that things work out the way people believe they will. Let’s imagine you and Curtis together again, and a wonderful painting drying in the desert air.”

  “I want to believe it,” said Margaret.

  “But you don’t.”

  “I don’t think I do.”

  The potatoes were delicious. Crisp, just the right amount of salt. He could feel her doubt, and her weariness.

  Bruno reached across the table and patted her hand. She liked that, found it reassuring.

  26

  Curtis was awake. Margaret did not need any sign. She could tell—he was a presence in the room.

  His eyes were alight, and when she spoke he turned his head to see her, moving it in little jerks until his eyes were on hers. It was like early, stop-motion animation, weeks of effort condensed into a single movement. She was about to tell Curtis to lie still and not try to do anything.

  “Don’t touch him,” boomed a male nurse in a slightly foreign accent. “You can see but you cannot touch.”

  “You break it, it’s yours,” said another nurse. Everyone was in high spirits.

  “I made it,” said Curtis.

  It was like a badly dubbed film. His lips moved. Then, quietly, there was his voice.

  It was hard to speak—she felt such happiness. She wanted so badly to touch him, to take him in her arms. The bustling in and out of nurses and orderlies were all a part of what was, in her eyes, a general celebration. “I’m so happy,” she said. The words were so puny.

  His voice was a cough. “I bet everything’s mashed. Arms, legs, butt.”

  “Not everything. I saw a chart. Your private parts are in pretty good shape.”

  “The crowd goes wild,” said Curtis, imitating a sports announcer, and coming out with what sounded like a radio so far away she almost could not hear it.

  She kept her tone bantering, offhand, but she could not keep her voice from trembling. “I think one of your finger bones is still intact, too.”

  Curtis parted his lips in a silent laugh. “I was run over, right?”

  He sounded proud of it. “They found you on the center divide,” she said.

  “Lying down? Standing up? What was I doing?”

  Dr. Beal had said that Red Patterson did not want anything upsetting his patient, including Mrs. Newns. She kept her tone light, with difficulty. “I get the impression you were more or less not doing anything.”

  Medical personnel ran in, ran out. How could they have a moment together in a place like this? She told herself not to cry. Whatever happened, she had to keep his morale high. It was easy enough, really. She was happy.

  “I know the pain is bad,” she said.

  He managed a smile. “Not when I’m looking at you,” he croaked. “All that talk about how terrible pain is. It’s completely exaggerated. Pain is not so bad, when you really start feeling it.”

  “Maybe you’re just tough.”

  “I always wondered what it was like to almost die,” he said. Then he swallowed and said, “Red Patterson was in here.” It was hard for him to talk further, his voice dwindling.

  Margaret had heard all about it. The man had come up the back elevator, normally reserved for “freight”—bodies descending en route to the mortuaries. “He wore a cowboy hat and a big long coat,” the nurse had said, “so nobody would recognize him, but you could tell in a second who it was.”

  Normal speech was not possible. Every phrase had to be translated from feeling, into words, then into a simplified, hospital-appropriate English. She said, “I saw it on the news again. Red Patterson’s still going to help you.”

  Margaret was surprised to see Curtis’s tears.

  “I love you, Curtis,” she said.

  He lifted a finger as though to say: of course you do. You can’t help it.

  “You want to go,” said Margaret. She was not asking—she was prompting him. “Don’t you. You want to stay out there in the desert for awhile.” Because my love isn’t enough.

  But he had closed his eyes.

  Margaret was ready. She was perfectly ready, wearing a pleated skirt, and that blouse Curtis had bought her, the one with what looked like starbursts all over it. She figured she needed something with a lot of color to get Red Patterson’s attention.

  She had not expected to be nervous, not this nervous. She found herself wishing she had brought Bruno along for the companionship. She felt like someone in a fairy tale, farm girl off to visit the king. Or even worse—the giant.

  There were still police vehicles on the street, supervising the steady traffic that snaked past, tourists gawking, childishly gaping. People with cameras were courteous to each other, discussing the best angle, getting snaps of the house where Red Patterson was almost killed.

  Because public impression had become confused. Patterson was okay, but he was not okay enough. Patterson had taken on the mantle of a man who had survived assassination. It was not mere attempted murder. Patterson was a Caesar who had taken the dagger’s thrust and lived.

  Even outside the house she could feel the tension. The San Francisco afternoon was chilly, fluffy clouds rolling in from the ocean. Cops sat in unmarked cars, watching. It wasn’t just her—everybody there was nervous, all the security people tight-lipped. A woman examined Margaret’s driver’s license. A man found her name on a clipboard. Another man spoke her name into a transmitter, Margaret Darcy Newns, and she felt herself enter the giant’s hall, where the shadows were cold.

  She was led into a side room where a man waved a security wand over her, the sort of device used at airports when your change purse sets off an alarm. The room was bare, except for a roll of black cable on the floor and a video camera, recording her image.

  A woman introduced herself as Loretta Lee Arno, and led her into an office. “All this security is a big pain in the butt.”

  “I wonder how Dr. Patterson is feeling,” said Margaret.

  “Nothing really bothers Red,” said Loretta Lee. But then her tone became more truthful. “It was a hard experience for such a sensitive man to go through. And he can hardly wait to get out of here.”

  “Out to the desert, you mean?”

  This question did not seem to merit an answer.

  Loretta Lee sat on the front edge of a desk. Margaret sat in front of her, on the edge of a chair, wishing that she had remained standing. “I run things,” said Loretta Lee. “If it gets done, I do it.”

  Loretta Lee looked hard, beautiful but tough to shake. She looked at Margaret and did not look away. It was a staring contest for a moment. “Red needs Curtis,” said Loretta Lee.

  “Curtis and I are grateful.”

  “You’re here to say no, aren’t you.”

  Margaret felt surprise. “Can I say no?” she said, too eagerly. “Or is it too late?”

  There was sadness for an instant in Loretta Lee’s eyes. “The world has to have Red Patterson back again. Working with Curtis Newns is what Red Patterson needs.”

  “I think it’s a matter of trust,” said Margaret. She hated herself for softening the statement with I think.

  “If I thought Red Patterson was doing harm, to anyone, I would feel responsible. And I wouldn’t let him do it. I’d stop him.”

  It was a staring contest again, but for some reason Margaret felt that she was winning. Something passed between the two women. Loretta Lee’s look softened. “You’re not just trusting Dr. Patterson. You’re trusting me.”

  The room was spacious, and oddly under-furnished. There was a smell of fresh latex paint in the air, and the carpet underfoot was new. A television was on, the sound off. There was a commercial; you could buy an album of country songs sung by a group of men who were supposed to be brothers. They did not particularly resemble each other.

  The man was as far away as he could get, leaning against a far wall with a
slouch she associated with Westerns, the gunslinger who would not turn his back to the rest of the room.

  He watched her for a moment before he moved.

  His smile was welcoming. He was tall, and he stepped toward her confidently. She offered her hand. His grip was strong, and he kept her hand just a little bit too long, holding her hand, actually, as though they were lovers, or intimate friends.

  What struck Margaret most, however, was her awareness of all of this—that he was a man acting welcoming, behaving in a confident manner, a good actor in rehearsal.

  “You’re a beautiful woman,” said Red Patterson.

  The brightest source of light was the television screen. Shadows jumped, jittered.

  She said that she didn’t want coffee or a drink, and she sat. He sat across from her, looking relaxed, and Margaret told herself that the meeting was going well so far.

  “I know Curtis believes in you.” She picked her words with care.

  “But you don’t.”

  The carpet had a strong, chemical smell, the scent of factory-fresh fibers, adhesive. “I want to. But I was shocked to see him on television.”

  Patterson said nothing, but he looked at her with kind, thoughtful eyes.

  “Maybe I should have expected it,” she said. “Maybe I was naive.”

  “It would have worked. If the shooting—”

  There was a moment of awareness. Margaret knew that this must be the very room, this new carpet, this fresh paint, so much cosmetic to cover the signs of violent death.

  “I felt betrayed,” she said.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  His apology had weight. “I spoke with Bruno Kraft,” she said.

  “I knew he was in town. I’ve always wanted to meet him.”

  What motivated her to lie just then? “He has persuaded me that Curtis should just stay here in the City with me for a while.” She was almost certain that this modest lie would be detected by the famous doctor. But she continued. “Maybe it’s best that he forget about painting. Maybe he should just be a human being.”

  He was quiet for so long she began to think that now she had really blundered.

  At last he spoke again. “You’ve been listening to a lot of advice,” said Patterson.

  “What difference does it make,” she said, “if we take a few months—”

  “It makes no difference. You’re right.”

  “Curtis is grateful to you—”

  “Whatever you decide. Curtis, and you, and Bruno—just put your heads together and decide what to do. My life belongs to Curtis now. He’s all that matters.”

  These words made Margaret uneasy. “That’s a very generous statement.”

  “I love Curtis.” His features appeared carefully drawn, eyebrow well-delineated, skin smooth, a portrait rather than a living face. There was a quality of earnestness about his eyes, a seeming sincerity that was disarming.

  No wonder people opened up to him, she thought. “Curtis’s recovery has been faster than the doctors expected.”

  “My patients always do well,” said Patterson, smiling agreeably. “And you’re doing well,” he added, like a fellow performer complimenting her reading of a script. “I’m very impressed with you. You’re a strong woman.”

  His compliment stirred her, won her over, as she knew it was intended to win her. But the man had power.

  He continued. “I want what’s best for Curtis.”

  Margaret was dazzled by this man—and puzzled. “Everyone acknowledges the good you can do.”

  “Some people don’t believe.” He shook his head, smiling sadly. “I think my critics dismiss me. They think I’m a creature of television, a monster. They want to keep me from doing good in the world. Curtis Newns is a client out of my dreams, a man I care about deeply, a man I can help return to his full creativity.”

  The man might be sincere, Margaret knew. He certainly sounded earnest. His speech was slightly too measured, like someone reading from a script he had almost fully memorized. This same quality made his words seem thoughtful, someone who would rather listen than talk. Or perhaps he had been taking some sort of medication. He had that odd, a-beat-late quality she recalled experiencing herself, when she took pills once for a cracked molar.

  He continued, “I know you don’t want to be separated from Curtis. You must love him far more than I do. I can understand why you might be concerned.”

  “Let me come with him,” she said.

  He took a moment before responding. “I’ve considered this. I would certainly enjoy your company. But I have to wonder—is that such a good idea?”

  “It would reassure me.”

  He gave her what he must have known was a handsome smile, the sort of interested look that is hard to resist. His gaze was both intelligent and erotic, so that a conversation like this did not seem far from an act more carnal.

  “Owl Springs would be wonderful for both of you,” he said. “I have a staff there, and all the comforts you might dream of. It’s far away, out in the desert, inaccessible by car. We do have aircraft—”

  She had read about the place, but felt it was necessary, for some reason, to make conversation, to fill the silence. “You fly? I mean, you have your own plane—”

  “I have a license. And I have a small collection of aircraft. I fly, when I get a chance. But I do think Curtis needs time to himself, time to be alone, quiet. Don’t you realize what a wonderful opportunity this is?”

  She did—that was the trouble. Curtis would thrive in a place she had heard described as “an oasis safe from the daily riot.”

  “Owl Springs is everything you can imagine,” said Patterson with a smile. “And more. Few people know this, but unauthorized aircraft are forbidden to fly over the estate. My land is next to a military preserve, and was declared off-limits as a legal courtesy to me. That makes the place especially peaceful.”

  “Curtis would love it.”

  “He would, very much. But wait,” he added, reading her expression. “You don’t have to decide now. There’s plenty of time.”

  She felt grateful to him, impressed with his warmth, the kind look in his eyes. But she still doubted him. She felt the suspicion lingering, a residue, nearly sinful. She lacked faith. Red Patterson was elusive.

  “Out there in the desert,” he was saying, “anything is possible.”

  “I came to tell you that I wouldn’t stand in the way,” she said. “I wanted to be sure.”

  He did not show surprise or gratitude. He had the ability to seem interested only in her. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am,” she responded, wanting to be more confident than she was.

  When she was about to leave, she followed him to the door. He was close to her, and as she looked up at him she saw what might have been, intuitively, the source of her lingering doubt.

  The man was wearing makeup, as though about to step before cameras. But Margaret understood that he was not doing his show these days. The look in his eye told her that he knew that she perceived this, and he shook his head, as though to say: this is our little secret.

  Margaret was so close to Red that she could feel the heat of his body. “It was horrible,” she said. “What happened here.”

  He kissed her—a diplomatic touch on the lips. She told herself that it was not romantic or erotic. It was even a little formal.

  She would put her fingers to her lips in the days to come and try to tell herself that she had been given a blessing.

  When it happened it was very quick.

  Loretta Lee called her just before the surprise maneuver took place. “Everything is going to be just wonderful,” said Loretta Lee. “Curtis couldn’t be in better hands.”

  Margaret was able to careen through the traffic in the BMW just in time to give Curtis a kiss on his cheek, another on his mouth, and then for the cameras, a last kiss slightly off target, just below his nose.

  It was going to be all right, they both agreed. The event seemed w
himsical, not serious at all, in that way that good-byes often manage to blend pathos with prosaic comedy, delays, wind doing awkward things with clothes and hair.

  It was very windy, and neither of them could hear the other very well. A team of doctors and nurses wheeled Curtis into a special van. Later, Margaret would watch this on the news. There was footage of Curtis smiling and waving, an unfocused, public benediction that made it appear that he was bidding farewell in a more general way, saying good-bye to all that smacked of illness and confusion. As he waved the plastic tubes tugged at plastic bags suspended above him, and the sacks of clear fluid swayed, festive and rhythmic.

  The automatic lift of the van failed to carry him upward. A mechanic fiddled with something. Curtis looked like a man healthy enough, if a director had called cut!, to climb out of the chair and stride off into the afternoon sunlight.

  When the van was gone there was a perfunctory flurry of attention around Margaret. There were a few questions, a few photos taken, but only one question stayed in her memory, nagging her afterward: were you surprised that Curtis was taken away so soon?

  When she was home that evening she let the starling go. She did it with the same abrupt decision with which she would have killed it to keep it from suffering, or cut off an injured leg—the sort of speed required when one acts with uncertainty, hope, and ultimate doubt that one is doing right.

  She told herself that she acted out of mercy. She was aware of the act as partly symbolic, but afterward she would find the symbol frustrating, elusive.

  She believed that Curtis had won his argument, and that she agreed with him at last: a cage is an evil thing. The glossy black bird was out of the cage quickly, hopping along the rail of the balcony. It released one of its squeaky calls.