Something in My Eye: Stories
Page 12
We had no friends. You drank with those men at the bar, but they weren’t our friends. I wasn’t allowed to know them.
You could have come! You never asked. How was I supposed to know you cared?
That’s what a husband does: he knows. Didn’t you feel how damp my pillow was when you came home? I cried every night, near the end. You could never get your shoes off without waking me up.
I took off my shoes to do my part. To keep the house clean!
I kept the house clean.
You kept such a clean house. Sometimes I’d see the kitchen tile shining so bright, and I’d drop right to my knees and give it a good lick.
There are only two types of people here.
I know, honey, the righteous and the saved.
The only people here are babies or those murdered.
But you weren’t murdered!
Someone decided that I was.
What about our baby, honey? The poor thing you brought with you!
We haven’t crossed paths, though some have seen her. The babies move so slowly here. One day I’ll meet her, I know that. It’s inevitable, given the lack of time. But I’m not hurrying. She’s not getting any older, and neither am I.
Have you met Jesus yet? What a treat that would be....
Not yet. They say He’ll arrive at such and such place at this time, but the terrain is pretty interchangeable here, so I’ve never caught Him. Granted, it is beautiful landscape, but after a while, a perfect lake or a perfect meadow tends to lose a little of its excitement. I do want to meet Him, though. They say He’s very personable.
You think He remembers what we used to say about Him?
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
I’ll bet you do. In the final stages, when we finally decided to go through with it. You remember, sugar.
We were so young, though. Your books gave you the saddest, ill-formed ideas. Loving you, I made myself believe them. What else could I have done? I made your beliefs mine.
Name one. You don’t remember them.
Oh, that all effort was useless, that life had a cold black center, that hell cared more for the two of us than anything in the world. Do you know what the worst part was?
That they were all true?
That you took pleasure in feeding me these lies. That was the worst; that you enjoyed yourself. My time here has given me a chance to consider how you’ve wronged me.
Is that what you do there? Open old wounds?
It’s actually quite amazing what we do here. When you arrive, your entire memory is given back to you, from the day of your birth to the day of your death.
So you’ve been spending time with me after all?
I guess.
I’m sorry, angel. I’m going to go.
It’s been good to hear your voice.
Well, it’s good to hear you say that. I know He doesn’t let you lie up there. Honey, it won’t be long.
Can you hear me calling from the canyon?
I hear you. I have some big news.
What happened, honey?
I found our daughter today.
Our baby girl? Where?
She was crawling through a meadow.
Is she pretty like her mamma?
She has your strange neck, but her eyes are all mine. She’s on my hip right now.
Give her a kiss from me! Have you been missing me?
I don’t know.
Were you worried when I didn’t call?
I assumed you were working late.
Actually, baby, I’ve been on the move. I was talking with the Devil the other day; he’s got such a honey tongue. He said that the only thing separating us is a canyon, that we’re both on the same plane. Isn’t that wild?
He tells you what you want to hear. Besides, I’m free to walk. I would have discovered it.
He also said that your good master blinds you to this. You can’t see it, baby.
You have no idea what you’re talking about.
Do you know what’s keeping me going on my little hike? Thinking about our goodbye. You remember that place. Under those big trees?
I can’t.
Do you mean you won’t?
I don’t know.
Do you remember tripping through the tall grass? We were gone on wine, angel. Lovers in love.
I remember the tall grass, but I never tripped. I walked tall. It was you who fell, who hit your head on that rock.
But your legs were so long and slim, darling. They tangled.
I’m nothing like that now. I practically float over the plain.
Remember those dappled shadows of the trees?
There were no shadows; the sun had fallen too far.
The dress you wore, that pretty stitching?
I’ve been given new clothes here.
Such a pretty gun we carried.
You were so proud of that thing.
So romantic, we were, walking under those trees in our fancy clothes.
I wish we would have picked a nicer stream to sit by. The water was so dirty.
Remember the thought we held to, angel? The one we placed before us?
Husband, wife, and child—all together. The Devil preparing three places.
We were so brave! But when I put the barrel to your hair. . . .
Everything we ever said seemed silly.
And you stopped loving me.
I screamed for you to stop, but the bullet passed through me, and I arrived here. I started walking, and haven’t stopped since.
Baby, I never heard you scream! I saw your eyes get wild with fear, though, and I knew I had lost you. I just couldn’t go through with it knowing I had lost you.
You were afraid.
It wasn’t fear, honey, so much as hurt feelings.
You knew you were a murderer.
I was feeling so down, I cried three tears, right there. One for me, one for you, one for baby. Then I sank you in the stream and rolled a boulder onto your back, so you wouldn’t rise.
Please stop.
I left you there, wondering if there was anyone out there in the world for me. I wanted to start over. To have a new family. I called your sister, but she never cared for me. I put up ads for myself. I went back on the dating scene. But no one wanted to be with me. The police barged in our house one morning, tramping all over that clean tile with their boots. I evaded them. As I was fleeing, my mind was racing, and I thought maybe—just maybe—I’d made a mistake. That maybe I hadn’t lost you after all.
You’d lost me.
I returned to the trees, to the stream where I had hid you. I dredged you up, and lay down beside you. Little fish had taken your soft parts, honey, but you were still beautiful. And that’s how I left the world: by your side, looking at you. Then I arrived here, and made a life for myself. Happy growing old, you know, but missing a little something....
You’re just a sick old man.
We all grow old here, honey, but the Devil keeps us working. Actually, I saw your father recently. A foreman in the mines, poor guy. Looks like his bones have gotten tired of propping up his skin. Pretty scary sight. But he works hard; he’s appreciated down here.
I wish you would leave me alone.
Some sweet day, angel. Some sweet day I’ll die again and turn to dust. But for now, there’s work to be done!
Goodbye.
Honey, I’m nearly there. The canyon’s steep, but I’m motivated. Dodging the bones of the others, like me, but without my agility. Where will we meet?
Can you hear me calling you? It should be perfectly clear.
On your side now. Have the wind carry your voice to me.
I’ve just met your colleagues, honey. Such a sad, pallid lot. All gone in nostalgic reverie. But they were helpful; they know how lonely it gets. They’ve directed me your way.
I see you across the stream, both of you. I’m waving from the other side. You recognize me; you do. Why would you look away? Honey angel baby sweetie darling sweet
heart—my last kind words. See how baby reaches for me? It’s OK, give her to me. I’ll toss her up and catch her. Listen to her laugh. A laugh must be so rare in this sanctified place. Don’t cry, please. You’ll have a job soon, you’ll be useful again. We’ll have our own place, a place in the comforting flames, a little apartment. And we’ll laugh together. We’ll learn how. When you ask me how my day went and I ask you how your day went we’ll both just laugh and laugh and laugh until the flesh falls from our bones and we’ll be two skeletons in love.
Come on, open your eyes and see me.
Last Seen
A mother and her son sit at their kitchen table. They are ruined people, both in appearance and spirit. Also, they are not financially well-off.
There was, and still might be, a brother to the son, a son to the mother. He disappeared not long ago, took the dog for a walk one bright Saturday and never came back.
We sympathize. We really do. So would he. Pity is easy for us; it’s empathy that we find difficult. But we’ll give it a try. We give all people one or two or possibly three chances.
It’s late afternoon. The light is ugly and yellow and violating the darkness as it streams through the blinds. At least that’s the mother’s opinion. Everything has become awful to her: the light, the dark, the modest house in which they live, the people they encounter on a daily basis. Except of course her son, whom she still loves.
The son has not yet reached his mother’s stage of evacuation. But, to be fair, though young, he already has some seedling of hatred growing in his heart. He is only nine, but has the face of an old man. It has been a difficult three months. The son doesn’t know this yet, but he will have to learn to live with his face. He believes he will shed it in adulthood. He is so sweet and wrong.
They, the mother and son, channel different frequencies of pain. Neither knows exactly what the other is feeling. This is a condition invented long ago by a pervert. To each his own private horror, the pervert says. Grief will be unending and barely endurable. Lay all your troubles on you know who.
It seems unrealistic that one family should suffer so much, we think. Awful statistics, we say, random accidents. (A plan, he says. A developing plan.)
There are some woods near the house, a square mile at the end of the street. Bring on the deforested future, we say. Less places to get lost. What is a child’s safety to a little lost wood?
The son has a notebook, on which he’s written the facts of the case. He doesn’t fully understand what he’s written. He just writes what he hears, what he reads or sees on television. His mother stares blankly, angrily at the window and the light seeping through it.
I want to look for him, says the son.
Why? says the mother.
We’ve been letting other people look.
They have been over this many times. The son still believes that his brother can be found.
Why don’t we look for him?
Where would we look?
The woods, says the son.
We’ve looked in the woods.
Somewhere else, then.
The world is too large.
Why do you want to forget him?
I can’t forget him.
The mother is right, of course. Oh, that we could forget everything, we say.
Why don’t you care? says the son.
But I do, says the mother. I’m trying to accept his absence. I hope you can, too.
But he’s not gone. He’s missing.
Really? Do you really believe that?
Come look for him with me, says the son.
The mother turns her face toward him. Her expression is haggard, furious. Think for a moment, she says. What do we know?
About what?
What are the facts?
Why? says the son. He looks at his mother with his poor hopeful face.
I’ll help you if you answer me, she says.
OK.
Where was he last seen?
He was last seen at the trailhead.
By whom?
He was last seen by an elderly couple at the trailhead.
Our neighbors. Who are decrepit cunts.
Why would you call them that?
Tell me what they saw.
They saw him talking to a gray-haired man in a gray truck.
And?
They took down the license plate and walked away.
Decrepit cunts.
Why would you call them that?
A decrepit cunt has a keen sense of danger but not the courage to locate the source of the danger, for they are too decrepit. Hence the taking down of the license plate without actually intervening.
So he was last seen by our neighbors, an elderly couple, who are a pair of decrepit cunts.
Yes. Read me what else you have.
Our dog was found in the woods, walking alone without a leash.
And what did we do with the dog?
We put it to sleep.
And why did we do that?
Because it was a reminder of my brother.
Yes. What else do you have there?
The police were able to find the truck, because of our neighbors.
What did they find in the truck?
They found two things, says the son.
Which were?
They found a dog leash.
And whose dog did the leash belong to?
Ours.
And where is our dog?
In the ground.
Good. What else did they find?
They found something that wasn’t there.
What was it?
They found that the seatbelt had been cut out.
Good. And what did police find in the dumpster behind the supermarket?
They found the seatbelt that had been cut out.
And what was special about the seatbelt?
It was soaked with blood.
Did it match your brother’s blood type?
Yes.
How does this make you feel?
Scared. How does it make you feel?
Angry.
Why not scared?
I’m not scared of anything. What did the police not find?
The gray-haired man and my brother.
And why haven’t they found your brother?
Because they haven’t found the gray-haired man yet.
And why haven’t they found the gray-haired man?
Because the police are limited?
Yes. Any other reason?
Because the gray-haired man is wily.
Yes. How does this make you feel?
Angry. Stop asking me questions.
Why?
You’re making me scared.
OK.
Do you remember your sister?
Yes.
What happened to her?
She was killed by a car.
And what happened to the perpetrator?
He went to jail.
Do you remember your father?
Yes.
And what happened to him?
He died of cancer.
And what happened to the cancer?
It died with him.
Good. Do you see how these things happen?
Yes.
Do you believe your brother is dead?
No.
Why not?
Because he is still missing.
But the facts.
I know.
Do you believe that the gray-haired man is guilty?
Yes.
And what has happened to him?
Nothing.
What do we need to do?
Find my brother.
No, says the mother. What do we need to do?
I don’t know.
Who do we need to find?
The gray-haired man.
Yes. Why?
I don’t know.
Will he bring your brother back?
No.
Why do we need to find the gray-haired man?