Meeks

by Julia Holmes

  "Speak for yourself,” said Ben. “I did nothing wrong; I was betrayed."

  "What is wrong with you, Brother? Not everyone is out to get you—only them,” he said, and pointed to the Brothers of Mercy, who were starting to make their way through the crowd: “Brothers and Sisters! Come together, come together!"

  The heavens watcher covered his face. “I stole another man's suit from his closet while he was sleeping. I might as well have killed him with my bare hands. He's here somewhere, I'm sure, smocked just like me."

  Ben looked away immediately. The hammerer put his arm around the heavens watcher. “It's OK, Brother. We've all ended up in the same place. Don't be so hard on yourself."

  "We'd better go. It's starting,” said the heavens watcher and got to his feet. Ben and the hammerer stood, and they walked with everyone else toward the stage. The men in the trees worked their theatrical ropes, generating peals of metallic thunder and the hollow chop of heavy boats moving through the shallows of the harbor toward shore. There was the pounding, hoisting step of powerful axles building speed, the hard scrape of machinery dragging itself out of the water and through a bramble of branches. Almond-shaped shadows drifted across the stage and into the streets; searchlights swept over the crowd, just as the lanterns had pierced the fog on that famous moonless night.

  Two policemen led a group of men in dark suits toward the stage steps. Ben felt the crowd surge forward. He and the other men surged forward with the crowd.

  "Oh, my God. It is him,” said the heavens watcher, sounding suddenly frail.

  "Who?"

  "The man I killed."

  Ben saw Finton among the prisoners, too. He was stooped, dazed, in a humiliating black suit. Ben wished he had never seen it. He looked away, pretended to study the Old Row of Bachelor Houses. The wind picked up and passed over the ivy-covered facades of the buildings until the row of old houses looked like the surface of the dark green river, disrupted by gusts. The wind pushed its way through the rows of trees in the park; the leaves on the trees shook noisily and then went soft.

  The heavens watcher covered his face, “I can't watch this happen. I'll die! I'm going to volunteer. Or else I want you to take that hammer and crush my skull."

  "Get a hold of yourself,” said the hammerer.

  "You don't understand. I was such a profound disappointment to my mother, who was a saint. I've broken every heart I ever touched."

  "But have you really touched that many?"

  "Many."

  "Where are you going?” Ben heard the hammerer's terrified whisper behind him, as he started walking toward the corral of prisoners. “Stop, Ben. Stop now."

  * * * *

  Meeks

  A great roar rose from the crowd when Bedge and I came into view. I lowered my head, suddenly overcome by self-consciousness. The people came to life, jostling one another energetically behind the human barricade of broad-bodied policemen. I glanced up uncertainly, and Bedge smiled conspiratorially at the reception we were being given.

  I could see the factories, like a majestic fleet of beautiful white ships forever cresting our horizon, the tireless engines of industry, the cloudlets of steam rising from the stacks. I heard the wind through the trees, smelled the sugar in the air, saw young women sipping their sunny lemon drinks, and I was happy again, happy to be outside beneath the trees, happy to see the people, all the amusing variations on existence arrayed before me. Bedge led me to the platform and signaled that I should wait at the base of the stairs. He bounded up the steps to take his place onstage. Bedge peered into the crowd until every conversation had died under his silent gaze, and the people were silent and still.

  Listen, Brothers and Sisters!

  We are listening!

  Captain Meeks saved us from the Enemy. Do you know this story?

  Yes, but we want to remember!

  Let us always tell this story to one another!

  Yes, it feels good to remember!

  The words Bedge spoke passed over my brain in a wave that was almost nauseating in its familiarity. He reminded us that Captain Meeks alone had the wisdom and strength to perceive a true Enemy across the water, to call him out into the light. So long as we kept the Captain's ways, we would be safe.

  The Enemy is always watching us! Bedge bellowed. From across the water, from the edge of the woods, can you see his savage eyes in the dark? He is waiting, Brothers and Sisters, waiting for us to grow lazy, to lie down in defeat. We must never give up!

  We will never give up!

  Bedge reminded us that unhappiness and turmoil and contradiction can proliferate only in the dissatisfied and unfulfilled heart, and that in the rogue and questioning heart, the Enemy could still find purchase, settle in, start to destroy us, one by one.

  Ours is a world formed by love, by the loving word of Captain Meeks!

  Let us be grateful to the Captain!

  Bedge paused, allowing an expected solemnity to spread through the crowd. But there's a problem, sighed Bedge. Some hearts refuse to be whole, cannot be made whole again. Some people have been unhappy.

  We confess that sometimes we have been unhappy!

  I have told you about how the Enemy lives across the water?

  You have told us!

  I have told you about how doubt endangers our hearts?

  You have told us!

  I tell you now that we must destroy that doubt within ourselves, and we must learn what that doubt looks like in others, whom it inhabits.

  We believe you!

  And I'm telling you that the Enemy is living right here among us. Never forget that!

  We will never forget!

  Do you know why we gather in this way each year?

  To remember the First Day!

  Yes. And just as Captain Meeks, on the First Day, brought the Enemy to this place and hanged him so that we could be free, so each year, we bring our Enemy to this place and hang him, so that we can remain free.

  Like all people, I felt most exhilaratingly contaminated by doubt in the final moments before the Enemy of our hopes was symbolically destroyed. Soon our hearts would be pure again, free of all the error and curiosity about other ways of living that had crept in. The Brothers of Mercy let loose a hail of words: Let's work, Brothers! Let us do this work today!

  I watched Bedge keenly, hung on his every word. I remembered so well being a boy, when I used to shudder at the ominous words of the old Chief of Police, when I used to bury my face in my mother's lap and beg her to tell me that everything would be all right.

  The moment was drawing near when I would climb the steps and stand before the people and speak for the Captain. In keeping with tradition, I would frown like the Captain, square my shoulders like the Captain, boom my voice like the Captain, and say, I want you to be free, Brothers and Sisters. There is no sacrifice too great. Then I would look around for the Condemned Man. Is it you, I would say, No, they would say, Is it you, I would say, No, they would say.

  I wondered . . . how does a Condemned Man really think and feel? Does he take stock of the world, even in jest, collect everything he knows, so that he can take it with him when he goes? And would this be a loving or vengeful act in a man condemned to death, the hoarding of reality in the old, cold hold, only to capsize the ship?

  Then what happens? I used to ask my mother.

  The Condemned Man has been hanged.

  Then what happens?

  Nothing.

  For the first time in my life, I doubted my mother or simply wished that she was wrong.

  I was trying to think of what might happen next. I remembered that one year, when I was very young, I wandered off into the crowd, determined to get a closer look. How did they accomplish this elaborate illusion; where was the contraption that made it possible for the hanged man to seem to die (but, in fact, to be saved)? I reached the front of the crowd easily; I was small and determined. A young policeman, a rookie, smiled down at me. I was pinned between the rowdy crowd and him. What'
s your name? he asked. My name is Meeks! (These seemed to be the first or best words I had ever spoken, even now.) I'm Bedge, he said, and he patted me gently on the head. In the next moment, the bells rang out, and the crowd pulsed forward, knocking me to the ground. I was instantly terrified, separated from my mother. I could hear the hooves of the police horses scraping noisily on the street; I was afraid I would be trampled. Bedge scooped me up and carried me to a safe spot under the stage. I lay on the ground and peered into the shadows under the stage. The Condemned Man was still swaying slowly in the mouth of the trap door, the taut rope creaking. Hello? I said, but his face was hidden by the black hood. Then the Brothers of Mercy appeared and started to cut the man down—one of them saw me hiding, and I scrambled out from under the stage and ran again.

  I ran out of the park and hid in the doorway of a old building. The streets were empty; a yellow bulb swung overhead, slicking the shadows with oily yellow light that revolted me. I could hear the chaos of the multitudes in the park, but I was being forced by events to test on my heart a new hypothesis—that I might be completely alone in the universe. It was getting cold and dark. The wind was picking up. A figure was headed for me; I raised myself up and peered: Mother? Rather, it was the man in the black jacket. The collar of his shirt fluttered against his neck. I thought optimistically, Perhaps Mother has sent him to rescue me. He glanced at me coldly, as I shivered with terror in the doorway, and he walked on. I knew better than to call out to him.

  A man cleared his throat noisily beside me. Bedge had brought over another actor and ordered him to stand beside me; we were standing shoulder to shoulder at the base of the platform steps.

  Trade jackets, whispered the other actor.

  Pardon me?

  Let's trade costumes—you take mine, and I'll take yours.

  No way. Never, I said, continuing to look straight ahead, and I shook my head in disbelief. Even a novice to the stage knows better than to break this most basic rule.

  But I couldn't resist knowing what my options were. I turned to study his costume—a Condemned Man? The Bell Ringer? He was a frail man, aged beyond his years, wearing a beautifully tailored dark suit. He turned to face me. I stared into his eyes. His hand shook slightly as he pointed at my chest.

  You, he said, should trust me, and he turned his pointing hand upon himself.

  I stared at the man standing beside me. I was face-to-face with the man in the black jacket. Bedge had granted me my only wish in life, and I heard myself say, I should trust you? (Why in life's biggest moments, when what I say should matter most, do I resort helplessly to repetition?)

  It's not too late, he said earnestly. He tried to hand me his props—the theatrical hood, a length of rope. Quickly, he said. He reached out to touch my elbow, and I flinched.

  Meeks.

  Yes, that's right, I answered blandly, I will be playing the Captain. (I felt very far away from myself.)

  No—you: Meeks.

  Again you amaze me with your powers of observation. You are correct: I am playing Captain Meeks.

  Trade with me, he pleaded. Let me go in your place.

  I shook my head no—of course, now that I finally had something worthwhile, something of inestimable value, he had returned to take it from me. You must think I'm a great fool, I said.

  I promised your mother I'd take care of you.

  What a joke, I said, and rolled my eyes for good measure, but I was suddenly close to tears.

  Please, Meeks. Take these things from me.

  Bedge came clomping back down the platform steps and stopped directly before me. The crowd was silent. He laid his hands on my shoulders and met my eyes; I knew that once we ascended the stairs he would be lost to me forever.

  Bedge, I said.

  Meeks, he answered.

  I turned to look at the man in the black jacket. He gave Bedge a final, long, desperate look and whispered, Let me go in his place! Bedge and I ignored him, and I turned to follow Bedge up the stairs to the stage, though my thoughts, to be truthful, were suddenly in a frightening state of disarray, scrambling for safe and solid places to alight. Think of your mother, I instructed myself as I climbed the stairs. Then I thought of my mother, only of my mother, imagined the cool, light pressure of her hand against my forehead.

  * * * *

  Ben

  Ben stared at the ground and pushed his way through the crowd. Young men shoved him; young women recoiled at the sight of his haggard face, his hanging gray smock, his bloodstained undershirt. He could feel the men in the trees watching him.

  As he approached the corral of prisoners, a policeman stepped in his way, laid a hand forcefully on his shoulder. “You're in the wrong place, Brother. Go back to the worker area unless you'd rather be a prisoner.” Ben was too terrified to look. The policeman turned him around by the shoulders and kicked him in the seat of his pants. “That way!"

  Ben walked; the people parted slightly as he went, and he followed the channel opening up before him. He was willing to sacrifice himself, but his will was forever the hostage and lackey of the brutal, soulless survivor who ran things in his head. A cloud dragged its shadow like a net across the trees, across the light gray backs of the birds that had settled along the branches. Ben could see the Brothers of Mercy walking along the periphery of the crowd, searching for someone. Perhaps the others had said something; he wanted immediately to run. Hold your ground, his brain instructed sternly, and he managed to hold his ground by closing his eyes and pretending he was elsewhere. All of humanity was absorbed in the events of the day, save him, who had discovered in himself the freedom to occupy other scenarios, other moments, at will. Every other creature of this world—the men, the women, the horses, the birds, the beetles, the bees, the moths, the squirrels—were just the things he had invented for himself. The dark gray buildings, the yellow-glowing windows, the rows of trucks, the watchful policemen, the untrustworthy brothers, the gusting postcards, the swaying ropes, the fruit-laden branches rising in succession like an archway of swords, like a series of curtains parting: they were all his.

  "Move aside! Step back!” Ben could hear the Brothers of Mercy making their way through the crowd; he opened his eyes and watched them pass at a safe distance. He was as good as dead, but he still had possession of his body, a fungible corpse he could choose to trade in for something better in this world. If he ran toward the stage, he could reach it in time, be hanged in an innocent man's stead. His body refused to move.

  The sun was setting, casting everything in a blue-gray light, the evening air subsuming more and more, until this world would be reduced to a meaningless thicket of shadows: rock indistinguishable from man, earth from sea. The world was disappearing, thing by thing, the evening steadily repossessing all the objects that the daylight had made to seem permanently stowed among Ben's own effects. The lavender spaces between the dark green leaves were flooding with ink, the shapes of leaves fusing together in the failing light. Men would be consolidated with their hats, with the tools of their trades; women would be consolidated into blocks of shadow with the men, their children circling them frantically in the failing light. Ben checked his shirt. The buttons were still bright, the cuffs luminescent; he had not yet been subsumed. Ben's mother had once given him a blank book, a book in which to write his thoughts. He had never written in it. He looked overhead at the clouds, flat and bright against the evening sky. He remembered: he had upset his mother; to spite her he had torn the blank pages of his book and thrown them into the river.

  "Step aside! Let us through!” The Brothers of Mercy coming closer. If he ran hard across the park and kept to the river, he might be able to reach the wilderness beyond the prison and take refuge among the unnavigable pines.

  "There! Stop right there!” Ben waited to feel their claws on his back, to be wrestled brutally to the ground. Then he saw her—as if the Brothers of Mercy had guided his eyes to the very spot. She was walking alone through the crowd, as if hiding from someone or seeking
them out. She walked faster; Ben watched her. He felt happy, then hurt, then angry, then worried—was she in trouble? Don't be ridiculous, he chided himself, she has everything in this world, and you have nothing. Did she help you when you needed it most? He was not marooned in this world. He would not be simply forgotten! Let her see him. Let her see him. Let everyone see him, let them finally get it: when something is lost, it's lost forever.

  * * * *

  Meeks

  I stood in silence beside Bedge on the high platform. Pairs of workers walked along the cake, carrying the fiery lengths of rope between them, igniting the candles as they went, and then throwing the rope into the river where it slapped the surface and steamed. I gazed down the steps at the man in the black jacket. What on earth was my mother thinking when she entrusted my safety to this frail and fearful creature? I wished I had never pursued the matter, that I had let it rest, that I had concentrated on a future made of something other than the ancient past.

  I wanted nothing more than to return to my former routines—I was still as curious as I had ever been about the city and the people in it. I wanted to descend the platform steps immediately and be among them again, to walk with the furiousness of a private purpose through the park, as I often had when I was happy. I strained to see distant details in the growing dark. I searched the windows of the buildings on the grand avenue. What was that infinitesimal light glowing within them?

  Bedge was talking about the history of our great city, as depicted on the cake, glowing like a river of well-meaning light below us. There was Captain Meeks carrying his mother's body through the flood-blue streets. Captain Meeks walking unperturbed beneath the deep blue water; a clutch of icing bubbles overhead that bloomed to puffs of clean steam on the surface and fed the machines on the nearby piers. He walked along the ocean floor, harvesting mussels by hand, tossing them into a net that trailed behind him for dozens of feet. The net was filled with bricks, wheat, pheasants, goats, gold, stone, trees, rain clouds, salmon, reeds, horses, fire, and yellow rosettes of stars he plucked as lazily as peaches from the firmament as he crossed the mountain ranges, when he had the joy of a mountaineer! Captain Meeks in the bleak, bulb-lit rooms by the piers, lecturing from atop the butcher-block tables (he was explaining a new world, understanding it). Captain Meeks by the river pointing to the trees, to the earth. Young women stared seriously wherever he pointed; young men stared seriously wherever he pointed. Captain Meeks lassoing and saddling the wild horses and stooping to feed their foals. Captain Meeks shooting birds out of the blank white sky, climbing trees to cut their nests to the ground with a curved sword. (How could one ever tire of Independence Day or the story of Independence Day?) I stared. As always, I was in awe of the cake, as one cannot help but be awed by the velocity of tradition and by the brutal hugeness of life, in diversified and self-diversifying forms, as it habitates one's hour. Mint-green icing leaves and chocolate-planked trees. Teardrop cookies, pouched in the deep white icing, were the small gray and purple birds that the Captain had blasted out of the brisk, leafless air.