by T. M. Wright
He found a box of Jell-O, studied it, put it back. "If she could look like Leslie, she could look like anyone. Hell, she could look like me." Another smile, broad and teasing.
"Don't make me nervous, Abner."
"I don't want to make you nervous, Sam. I just want to"—his eyes got very wide and round—"open your eyes." He laughed. "It's the only way to cope. It's the only way to go on . . . existing. By keeping your eyes open, by accepting nothing for what it seems to be, unless you know in here"—he thumped his chest—"that it's what it seems to be. And you'll find there's damned precious little that you know in here." Again he thumped his chest. "She was a comedian, Sam. The world's full of comedians, living and dead, it doesn't matter much, except when they're dead the… special effects"—he grinned-- "get a heck of a lot more interesting." A short pause. "I remember going into this bar on East 79th Street—"
"And what if I don't want to cope," I cut in. "What if I don't want to spend the rest of my life dodging shadows—"
"Oh, shit, Sam, you won't spend the rest of your life dodging shadows. This thing you've got is temporary, remember?! Temporary. That's what Madeline says, and whatever else can be said about Madeline, she does know her stuff." A pause; I started to ask who the hell Madeline was, because it wasn't the first time he'd mentioned her, of course, but he cut in, ."And Christ, they aren't shadows, Sam. They're a hell of a lot more substantial than that."
"So," I suggested, "what if I don't want to spend the rest of my life dodging spooks, then?" I jumped to my feet, felt my pulse racing in my ears. I leaned over, suddenly dizzy, put my hands on the table. Abner came over, put a hand on my arm. "Are you all right, Sam?"
I shook my head. "And what if I don't want to cope? What if I want out? What if I want to see only what everyone else sees?" I looked into his eyes. "What then, Abner?"
He stepped back. He had a box of pudding mix in his hand; he put it on the table, tapped it with his forefinger, and shook his head slowly. "I've asked myself the same question a million times, Sam." He continued tapping on the box. "I don't think I ever really meant it. I mean, I've got kind of a special interest in what goes on in . . . that world, don't I? I'm in love, and that helps me to cope."
"Just answer my question, Abner. Later, if you want to talk to me about your love life, then we'll talk about your love life, but for now, just answer my question."
He picked up the box of pudding and took it back to the cupboard where he'd found it. He said, his back turned, "I've told you before, Sam. You see what you see because you want to see it. In a way, I guess you invite it. As I do. Maybe you're not aware of it. Maybe you'll deny it seven ways to Sunday. But that woman came into your house"—he glanced around at me—"because you wanted her to come in. It's the same reason those girls came into your bedroom."
"Horseshit! Why in the hell would I want two giggling girls in my bedroom in the middle of the night?"
He laughed shortly. "That's not for me to say, my friend. I guess it depends on how well you know yourself, doesn't it?"
I didn't answer him. I was still angry, my pulse was still racing in my ears, but I wasn't sure why I was angry, or at whom. I went to the back door. The shade was down. I lifted it and stared out at the hulking, dark shapes of the dunes. I could faintly hear the ocean; the sound was comforting. "And when I stop wanting to see?" I said. "What happens then?"
Abner answered immediately, "Like I told you, Sam, this talent you've got is temporary. I don't know when it will go away. Soon, I hope. Then your life will return to normal, and you'll see only what everyone else sees. That's what Madeline tells me."
The sound of the ocean grew steadily and slowly louder, as if a wind were building.
Abner said, "What's that noise, Sam?"
"The ocean," I answered.
He closed the cupboard door softly, came over to me by the back door. "Wind's picking up, huh?"
"Yeah," I said, "the wind's picking up."
"Maybe you should go now, Sam. I really think you should go." I looked quizzically at him. He went on, "You won't like it here in a storm. This is not a pleasant place to be in a storm."
"I, wasn't aware that it was ever pleasant here, Abner."
He looked hurt. He took the shade I was holding, drew it up, leaned over, peered out. "It's going to be bad," he whispered. Then he straightened and looked earnestly at me. "I mean it, Sam. There's no reason for you to be here, so why don't you go? You can take my car again. Just please bring it back tomorrow, okay?"
Behind heavy white curtains, the windows to the left and right of the door began whining under the gathering wind. Abner drew the shade closed; he looked suddenly very agitated. He went to the sink and stood at it with his back to me, his hands gripping the sink hard, arms straight and stiff. Then he turned, got a backward grip on the sink, so his arms were still straight and stiff, and smiled a flat, false smile. "Please leave, Sam." His voice was tense and high-pitched. "Remember how I warned you before, about coming here?"
"Sure," I said.
"Well, I'm warning you again. This is not a pleasant place to be in a storm. It's very unpleasant, in fact. And I really . . ." He paused; his head fell forward, as if he were dizzy. He looked up. "For heaven's sake, get out of here, Sam! Get out of here, please!"
"No," I said.
The windows whined louder; the heavy curtains moved slightly. I said, "Where' would I go? I can't go back to my apartment; I sure as hell can't go back there. Besides, like you told me before—you need a friend here." I shrugged. "So I'll stay."
He glanced nervously at the windows, then at me. "I've changed my mind, Sam. I don't need anyone here. Really. That's the truth. I want you to go—I'm telling you to go."
The house shook. The whining at the windows became constant and loud. "No," I said. "I like ocean storms; I've always liked ocean storms."
He was still at the sink, still had his hands on it. He closed his eyes, raised his head a little, and screamed at me, "You can't stay here, Sam—my God, you can't stay here!"
The whining at the windows grew erratic. Abner opened his eyes and looked about as if confused. The whining stopped, started, stopped. The wind died. A long sigh came from him. "Thank God," he said.
~ * ~
After we have been apart for a few days, Leslie and I approach each other with incredulity and caution. I'm not sure why. I said to her once, "It's as if we have to draw the curtains aside." She nodded. She agreed. "It's as if," I wrote to her, "we can't really believe what we have and so we sniff around it for a while to be sure it's real. And when we find out that it is, we touch and grin and hug in the way that we do," which means urgently, with fun and pleasure.
It's like meeting someone at an airport. Airports are full of good feeling—they are places where people take their masks off, however briefly, and let their love come out.
So it's as if we are always meeting each other at airports, always waiting for the arrival of the people we were the last time we were together.
TWENTY-ONE
In the real world—in what passes for the real world, at any rate—things are almost always what they seem to be. A mailman coming down the street with a bag under his arm is almost always just a man delivering mail. A window washer poised thirty stories up on a tether is only a window washer. A man wearing a dark suit and carrying a cane who tells us where we should and should not park the car is usually just someone who can't mind his own business. And a storm that comes up, makes some brief noise, and dies is usually just a fit of the weather.
That's very close to the way things are in the world that Abner drew me into. Most of the time, things are precisely what they seem to be. It is a world of sun, and sky, and earth, of streetlamps, telephone poles, garbage trucks, Dear John letters, and mistletoe. It's a world where people fall in and out of love, where people lie to each other and whisper to each other and shout at each other. A world of B-1 bombers and political parties, personal computers, and hayrides. A world where pets are bu
ried, and trees fall, and spring slides into summer. But it is also a world whose rules can change from one moment to the next, a world where the mailman may evaporate or the mistletoe slither off across the ceiling, a world where the same tree may fall again and again and again.
~ * ~
I stayed at the beach house that night, despite Abner's halfhearted objections. He gave me a small square room down a short hallway from the kitchen. It faced the ocean, and was sparsely furnished—a black wrought-iron twin bed, a battered oval night-stand, a tarnished brass wall lamp, a small wood-framed picture above the bed. The room was painted a bright yellow. Abner said, "It's a pretty restful color with the light off, Sam. And you can hear the ocean. If you get to sleep right away, you should be all right." He paused. "Do you want anything?"
I sat on the bed. Its dull blue comforter had a slightly damp feel; the mattress beneath was soft and lumpy, as if it had seen a good many years of use. I looked up at Abner. He was standing near the door; he was obviously in a hurry to leave. "Anything?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Sure. To help you sleep. You know, sleeping pills. Do you want any?"
I shook my head, started to say No, thanks. He interrupted, "I'd recommend it, Sam. And I'd recommend something strong, too. Something that'll knock you out good."
Again I shook my head. I patted the bed. "This feels comfortable enough," I lied.
He smiled. "You think you're pretty tough, don't you, Sam?"
"No. I don't." It was the truth. "But I can sleep without help. I did it in Nam, I can do it here."
He shrugged again. "Whatever you say." He went to the door. "I'll see you in the morning."
"Sure," I said.
He left. The door stayed open.
His footsteps faded down the hall. I leaned back so I was supporting my weight on my elbows, put my feet up, and turned off the light over the bed.
"Abner?" I heard. The sound seemed to come from the other end of the hallway he had just gone down. "Abner?" It was a woman's voice, and there was a strong whisper of urgency in it.
I got up, went to the door, and looked to the right, toward the kitchen.
"Abner?" I heard again. I saw his shadow cast obliquely across the stove and sink, and I guessed that he was near the door that led to the beach.
"Abner?" I heard again.
His shadow grew fatter.
"Abner?"
He appeared. He was standing sideways to me, facing the kitchen wall. He had his hands raised to waist level, as if he were preparing to hug someone, and a little smile was on his lips—a smile, I guessed, of thanks, and disbelief.
He said, hardly above a whisper, "Phyllis?" and took a step closer to the wall, raised his hands higher. "Phyllis?" he said again.
An arm appeared from that wall—first the hand, then the wrist, the forearm. The hand clawed desperately in the air and Abner grabbed it and held tight to it. Then he tugged hard, as if he were fishing and pulling an eel in, and the opposite shoulder appeared, then the arm, the hand, which he also grabbed and tugged on, murmuring, "Phyllis, Phyllis!" all the while.
A woman's naked torso came out of the wall. Then her legs, her feet.
The head was last. It came out of the wall at a hard backward angle, as if something inside the wall were holding the long dark hair and it was an awful struggle for her to free it.
I heard a long, low groan that was clearly a mixture of great pain and pleasure. I didn't know whom it had come from. It could have come from them both.
They embraced. It was a hard and wonderfully close thing, the kind of embrace that is so much more than two bodies merely touching. The kind of embrace that is the happy mingling of two souls.
"Oh, my God, Phyllis, Phyllis!" Abner whispered.
"Abner, my love!" she murmured into his shoulder.
There was silence then. They continued embracing.
She had her face turned my way; her eyes were closed. She opened them, leveled her gaze on me. She mouthed the word "Please" at me. Then, "Leave us alone."
And I backed quietly into the bedroom and closed the door gently behind me.
~ * ~
She was a tall black woman, nearly as tall as Abner. Her eyes were large, her face an exquisite oval, and her body perfect.
~ * ~
I slept very little that night. I lay on my back on that soft and lumpy bed, with the light off, and I let the hours slide by. Now and again, a sound of pleasure drifted down the hall to me from the kitchen. Once, toward the end of the night, I said, "I'm happy for you, Abner," then I turned over and shivered at what I had witnessed.
When the beginnings of daylight were filtering through the window, I was awakened by a scream. I pushed myself up on my elbows. "Abner?" I whispered.
"No!" I heard.
"Abner?" I said aloud.
Nothing.
"Abner?" I called.
He appeared in the doorway. His face was red and puffy, as if from weeping. "Go back to sleep," he said, voice trembling. "Everything's all right."
"Are you sure, buddy? I heard a scream."
He nodded. "Yes," he said. "I'm sorry if I woke you."
"You're sorry you woke me? Don't be dumb. Just convince me you're all right so I can go back to sleep."
He nodded. "I'm all right, Sam." And he disappeared down the hallway.
TWENTY-TWO
I slept through the morning and into the afternoon. The soft and lumpy mattress had proved to be comfortable enough after nearly three days without sleep, and it was at about one in the afternoon that Abner woke me.
He said, standing over me while I struggled out of sleep, "She was here, Sam. Phyllis was here."
I swung my feet to the floor, put my elbows on my knees and my head down. I felt a headache starting. "Yes," I whispered. "I know. I saw her."
He sat on the bed and glanced at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I guessed that he was grinning. He looked away. "What do you think?" he asked, his voice low, as if he were embarrassed. He looked back and repeated, his voice louder, "What do you think?"
"Think of what?"
"Of her. Of Phyllis." He chuckled self-consciously. "Isn't she something?"
"Abner, I'm not awake yet."
"I've never loved anyone the way I love her. I know how corny that sounds—"
"My God, Abner." I looked him squarely in the eye. "The woman is dead! Phyllis is dead!"
He gripped my knee hard. "Sam, we're all dead in one way or another. If we're not physically dead, if our blood still pumps and our sweat still flows, if we can scarf down a Big Mac, is that supposed to mean that we're alive? Shouldn't alive mean something else, something deeper and more spiritual?" His grip on my knee strengthened. He nodded at it. "You can feel that, right?"
I sighed. "Abner, I'm sorry, but this is bullshit! If that hurts you—" I shook my head. "If it hurts you, then I'm sorry." My headache was getting worse by the second.
He smiled a little. "No," he said, "it doesn't hurt me, because I know you're wrong." He nodded again at his hand gripping my knee. "You're probably convinced, like everyone else, that because you can feel that, because, if I squeezed hard enough, you'd feel pain, that that means you're alive." His grip loosened. "Phyllis feels pain. She feels it every second of the day. You might say that every moment for her here, in this house, she's alive with pain." His smile broadened as if he had suddenly stumbled upon some great truth.
I glanced at him. "Do you remember Susan Burdorf, Abner? She went to high school with us, in Bangor."
He clasped his hands in front of his knees, lowered his head. "You simply can't understand how I feel, can you, Sam? You refuse—"
I cut in, "Do you remember you had the hots for her? Do you remember you used to write her this really awful love poetry? I remember, because you were just about impossible to be around that entire school year; you had your damned tongue hanging out all the time, and a hard-on the size of a baseball bat."
He stood abruptly, whirled around, and said tightly
, his temper on a very short fuse, "That wasn't love, goddammit! That was biology! Don't try to cheapen what Phyllis and I have, Sam, because we have something very, very special—"
I looked up at him and let out a long, weary sigh. "I need some aspirin. I feel like shit."
"You think this relationship Phyllis and I have is . . . perverse, don't you, Sam? Admit it."
I looked down at the floor. I whispered, half to myself, "Well, for God's sake, it's not going anywhere, is it?"
He laughed quickly, mockingly. I looked at him, surprised. He shook his head: "It doesn't .have to go anywhere, Sam. Why the hell do relationships have to go anywhere? That's a trap. That's a stupid, lousy trap. A relationship is; it's like ice cream—you have it, you enjoy it, but it doesn't have to go anywhere."
I stood again, fought back the expected wave of dizziness and nausea and pushed past Abner to the doorway. I stopped there, supported myself with my hands on either side of the door frame and my back to Abner. "Just tell me where the damned aspirin is, would you?"
"Sam, I love her. I love her more than I thought I could love any woman."
"Yeah. I'm happy for you," I said. "Invite me to the wedding," and I stumbled down the short hallway to the kitchen.
~ * ~
We had a picnic behind the beach house that day. It was a pretty ludicrous affair. Abner was dressed—for effect, he said—in gray knee-length shorts, ankle-high sneakers, a pink long-sleeved shirt, and a ragged red plaid sports coat. He had gathered up some driftwood and started a little fire with clumps of newspaper. We used the grating from a rusted hibachi we found on the beach to cook chicken hot dogs and reheat leftover artichokes in a pan of water. He'd also driven to a deli several miles away and bought a six-pack of Michelob.
We ate seated cross-legged, facing each other on the sand halfway between the house and the ocean. My headache from an hour before was still lingering around the back edges of my brain, but as I ate, the food—awful as it was—eventually overcame what was left of it.