Genevieve shook her head. “He didn’t say anything. I said what are you doing? Why’re you going to work at 6 fucking o’clock in the morning? He said, I don’t know, I don’t know. He just kept saying that, I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell is going on. And he didn’t say it like he was confused or anything. It was more like a question, you know? It was more like he was trying to figure something out. I don’t know—I don’t know what the hell is going on. Those were his last words to me. I don’t know.
I thought about that room at the lab, the brownish gas pouring out of the pumps, Wooly saying it was 15 times as toxic as what the feds classified as bad air.
The final solution.
I remembered something else he said at the lab, as we were leaving. There’s just something fascinating about disintegration, watching something fall apart with the passage of time. In a way, it’s like looking into the future, predicting what’s going to happen.
>>>>>>
BUT WHAT DID YOU SEE?
At least her dark study was cool. That was one good point you could make. Everything else you could see was pretty grim. She’d changed in two days. There was a grayness in her thin face now, the kind of gray you see in coffins and that all the mortician’s makeup in the world can’t hide. She was sitting at her desk as always, the tumor corroding her brain, and even in the poor light of the room she was starting to squint. She just wasn’t as there as much as she used to be, both in terms of weight and spirit. She was almost a dream of herself.
I took a seat. Her puffy new assistant had shown me in, looking at me through those goggle glasses with complete incomprehension.
“How are you?” said Georgiana.
“You heard?”
“Of course. Talk of the town.”
“Hell of a way to go.”
“If you’re here to ask if I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you. I’m not. Excuse the honesty of the dying, but I’m not sorry.”
Not really cold. More like deep freeze. “And Marco? Just asking.”
“Different story. Utterly different.”
“Either way, there’s a lot of death going around.”
“Yes, the subject seems to be in the air lately. But as I’ve told you, people have such misconceptions about death.”
“Right, you’re not afraid.”
“It’s not a matter of life or death. It’s a matter of life and death. They’re one and the same. The universe is the universe. There’s nothing outside of it to fear.”
The sun was setting on the other side of her closed blinds. A rose-colored shadow was spreading through the slats like blood.
“What do you fear?”
“Wasted time. Mr. McShane, as much as I enjoy your company, is there a reason you’re here?”
“To be honest, I don’t know. I guess it’s just to point out that you were wrong.”
“Wrong?” The idea seemed to startle her. “What do you mean, morally?”
“I mean prophetically.”
“How?”
“You were a few days off on his death.”
She was smiling. Actually, grinning. A strange thing to see under that stringy white hair—a dying woman’s sly grin.
“The other things I saw, did they come to pass?”
“The dragon in the road, time stopping—yeah, they all seemed to. But you blew his death.”
“Really? What did I say? Do you remember?”
Of course I remembered. I’d heard it often enough. “You said death will visit your house. Someone will die in your house…someone will be killed…by someone who’s killed before.”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s what I saw. I saw someone in his house, a man, a man with that halo of smoke lingering behind him. I had no idea it would be Marco.”
“And he was killed by someone who killed before?”
“I understand your friend Wooly once bullied a boy to death, when he was younger. So people have told me.”
“Okay, but then you got specific. You told Wooly it’s you. You’re the one. Death is coming to you. You mentioned eyes—a sphinx, a lion, an eagle and two eyes that look down. You said when the eyes’ rays—exact words—are at their most powerful, when they’re…at their strongest, when the rays are at their strongest, that’s when you’ll die.”
A dreamy nod. Savoring the memory. “Yes, I said that.”
“You said he’d die on the solstice.”
“Well, there’s part of your problem right there. Faulty interpretation. The other part of it—and here I must admit to a bit of deception. The other part of it is, I never really predicted his death. I never actually foresaw it.”
“What’re you talking about? I was standing here. I heard you.”
“You heard me, but what did you see? Think about it, Mr. McShane. What did you actually see?”
Son of a bitch. I remembered it now. I remembered her hands. She’d been sitting where she was sitting now and her hands had been rubbing on the desk for minutes straight. She’d had that hypnotized, gazing-at-Saturn look that she’d get when she was in a trance and her hands had never stopped working the wood of the desk. Then they went still—I remembered that. Her hands weren’t moving any more and her far-gone expression had dropped away and I’d thought, okay, it’s over. But then she’d looked at Wooly. I remembered thinking for 1/16 of a second that the look was strange—she never directly looked at anybody when she was in a trance. But she’d looked right at Wooly, and that’s when she said It’s you. You’re the one. Death is coming to you.
“You faked it? Is that what you’re saying? You fucking faked it?”
“That’s right.”
“That was never part of your vision?”
“The vision had ended a moment before. But I saw an opportunity and I seized it. I saw a chance to make him believe he really was going to die. An unstable person like that, he’d either die of fright or take his own life.”
“But you were sad. I remember—you were sad when you said that to him.”
Georgiana waved a hand—what can you do? “It’s always sad when you send a man to his death, no matter who he is. Still, let’s look on the bright side. You realize, of course, that my faux prediction in fact came true?”
“How so?”
“I said he’d die when the sun’s rays were at their most powerful, at their strongest. I haven’t been out today, but what was the temperature?”
“It hit 103.”
“A record-setting temperature, I believe? The hottest day of the year? I rest my case.”
The outside light was fading and she only had the one shaded desk lamp on. The air in the room was just green haze.
“So you drove him to his death?”
“He set the directions, but I was happy to serve as chauffeur.” Still grinning—she was rather amused. “I told you once, the dead haunt us. And that’s true even when the dead, like myself, are still alive.”
“Why? Why try to kill him?”
“Simple, really. I just didn’t like him. Not at all. I just hated him. Nothing more complicated than that. I just hated him.”
“That’s pathetic. That’s as pathetic as his suicide.”
“I don’t catch you.”
“They’re both too easy.”
“There’s nothing easy about hate.”
“Bullshit. What could be easier than hate? It’s the easiest emotion in the world. You don’t have to think about it, you don’t have to work at it. It’s just there, waiting for you to wallow in it. It’s just lazy, when you come right down to it.”
Her stretched smile faltered a bit. Our little conversation seemed to be sapping her, making it harder to hold a grin.
“One thing is beyond dispute, Mr. McShane. He made life hell for many people.”
“Hell.”
“A living hell.”
“You believe life and death are the same? Light and dark?”
“Both ends of the same pole, yes.”
“Then
heaven and hell are the same place, aren’t they? It’s all a matter of interpretation.”
Her eyes never followed me as I got up. They stayed set on the chair. Maybe they couldn’t move all that well. There was a film in them now that I could only see standing up. The smile was still there—count on that—but her eyes were dim and gauzy and as motionless as glass. Her life was already starting to cancel out.
>>>>>>
THE GLASS IS HALF-FULL
It was like some arcadian vision, half-remembered from childhood. Sixty or so people gathered in the back world of the Paumanok, sheltered by oaks and pines and cedars, huddled close together to make ourselves feel a little less alone. Just about everybody was here. The entire staff of Material Witness. Farooq, the manager. Paulita, the woman who’d told Wooly she wasn’t bothered by the 6,500-watt xenon arc lights. Alex Tarkashian, acting I guess as the official rep for the town, crying with the best of them. Genevieve’s family. Wooly’s brother and sister, both big hairy people. The brother had a bushy beard and spent a lot of his time furiously trying to blow something out of his nose. The sister had somehow managed to squeeze into a tight white pullover top, a denim miniskirt and a pair of pink cowboy boots. There’s a genetic pool that makes for some tough swimming.
We were all gathered around the 100-ton boulder, all feeling the deep pull of its force, the sweet slow music of it seeping into our blood. We were all hooked into that centuries-old high. How did Wooly put it that first day he brought me out here? I think there’s a kind of ancienty here, you know?
One piece of bad news: Wooly’s last wish, to be buried under the dolmen, couldn’t be granted. He was too fat to fit in the crawlspace. The Algonquins, presumably, had never matched his girth. But Genevieve had come up with a solution. She’d had him cremated and was going to scatter his ashes under and around the rock.
The minister from the local A.M.E. Pentecostal church had been tapped to preside over the ceremony. He was speaking now, telling a story about a cave in the woods, a sacred place, talking his heaventalk. I glanced around, caught sight of Nickie. She wasn’t aware of me staring at her. She was listening to the minister, looking like she was about to cry.
I never noticed it before, but it struck me now. She almost always looked like she was about to cry. She really was one of those sad-eyed ladies of the lowlands.
Stirring in the crowd. The minister had wrapped things up and now Farooq was standing in front of the rock. He started with an announcement: He wanted to assure everyone that Material Witness wasn’t going to close its doors. Genevieve had promised him the lab would stay open to carry on Wooly’s work. There was much applause. Farooq went on to praise Wooly’s contributions to the testing profession, and he was just starting to explain his importance to the industry when I spotted something at the far edge of the crowd. A headful of long reddish-blond hair.
Jen, shyly keeping her distance from everyone else.
I made my way over.
“I heard about the funeral,” she said. “I thought maybe you’d be here.”
“Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to get in touch.”
“My prepaid. My minutes ran out. I’ve got to get another one.”
“So you’re okay.”
“Sure.”
“You had me worried.”
“Sorry.”
“I wanted to… Long as you’re here, I have something for you.”
She stared at the 20. “You don’t have to. That’s not why I came.”
I put it in her hand. “You earned it. You were a big help.”
“That was some night.” She pocketed the money. “I heard about what happened. I don’t think I’m ever going to forget that night.”
“Why didn’t you call me after? Use a pay phone or something?”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Bother me? You weren’t gonna bother me. I was worried about you.”
These fucking kids.
Farooq was going on about the high testing standards Wooly maintained, the tremendous impact he’d had, the innovation and inspiration he’d brought to the business.
“So everything’s all right?” I said.
“Yeah.”
“How long you gonna keep doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“This life. Living like this.”
Jen replied with one of those slouched-shoulder teen shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel about it anymore. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be feeling. I know it’s supposed to be something, but I’m not sure what it is.”
“You still have my number?”
“Yes.”
“You stay in touch, okay? When you get a new number, let me know what it is.”
“Okay.”
“You have any family left? Anybody?”
She fingered her hair, gathered it in a handful and gave it a deep sniff. “Couple aunts, uncles.”
“Why don’t you give them a call. Just let them know you’re all right.”
“I don’t know. My dad didn’t get along too much with them.”
“Just call. I’m sure they’ll be glad to hear from you.”
“I don’t know. I might need some time on that one. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Farooq was finishing up his remarks, thanking Wooly for what he’d done.
“I’ve gotta get going,” said Jen. “I’ve got some pick-ups to make. I just wanted to say goodbye.”
“You take care, you understand?”
She leaned forward, gave me a small kiss on the cheek, then turned away and drifted back into the woods.
Of course I thought about my daughter. Of course I saw my daughter walking away.
Genevieve was getting ready to speak. She was still drained with aftershock but smiling at the crowd, holding the urn with the fresh ashes in her hands. She started talking about their wedding, about the mousse-less mousse cake and what a falling-apart disaster the whole ceremony had been. It was the same story she’d told that morning in the kitchen, so far away, so long ago—Wooly throwing the cake at the caterer, the caterer calling the cops, Wooly fighting with the waiters, her family and the cops, Genevieve driving off in her wedding dress with Wooly straddling the hood of the car. It took her a couple of minutes, but soon she was getting laughs, the crowd reaching for the relief of laughter.
It was a good day for laughing. Sunny morning, the woods in full green bloom. The air was clear and the dead were finally at rest.
Somebody touched my arm. I turned to see big smoky brown eyes and a cheek webbed with double scars.
Nickie smiled. “I wanted to talk to you. I just wanted to say something before we said goodbye.”
We stepped away from the others, backed into the edge of the woods.
Genevieve had shifted gears and was talking about the last few years. “I don’t know what happened to him. He was never an easy person, you all know that. But those last years, I guess something just got a hold to him. That’s all I can say. Something got a hold to him.”
Nickie’s shoulders raised up as she took a let-it-all-out breath. “I’m sorry about what happened. I asked you not to ask about my past. And when I asked you, when I told you, I meant it.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too, and when you did it anyway, I went off. I went off my own wall. I felt bad, then I started feeling bad about feeling bad.”
“I know the sequence.”
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“That’s what I wanted to say too. That’s exactly what I wanted to say.”
Genevieve was looking at the urn in her hands. “I got to see him just before they, just before they brought him to the furnace. He looked so peaceful lying there. I almost didn’t recognize him. He finally looked peaceful.”
Nickie suddenly lunged at me and gave me a full open-mouth kiss. It took us right back there. It took us right back to where we were, and in one more moment my heart
would’ve blown through the top of my head.
But it ended. She pulled away. It was over.
Genevieve was sobbing. “I loved him. I loved him so much. No, that’s not it. That’s not true. I love him. I love him so much.”
I took Nickie’s hand. She squeezed it, but let
it go.
“I’m going to go back,” she said. “I think I should. But maybe…”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe I could call you some time.”
“Maybe you could.”
I watched her walk away, watched her walk back to the others. A moment later, I returned to where I’d been standing before.
We were all the same, all of us. Each of us was carrying around our own world of hurt.
Farooq and the minister were helping Genevieve open the urn. She was getting ready to scatter the ashes.
The glass is half-full, motherfucker.
They turned to the old stone. Genevieve looked up at the sky and blinked. The minister said something to her, but the breeze carried the words away, whatever they were.
There was a breeze. It carried the honey-smell of flowering bushes, it made the air go fluid. But the trees, they weren’t moving. The trees were absolutely still.
The great spiritual leaders all had one thing in common. They were all madly in love with life, with the world, the universe, God. Eventually, of course, the fine-print explainers and doctrinal politicians came along and put conditions on that unconditional love. But before that happened, the message was always the same: Be in love with life. Because this is life, right now. This is the life of life. And if we don’t always realize that, then maybe Jen was right. We might need some time on that one.
###
WHO THE HELL WROTE THIS?
I worked as an Executive Editor at Entertainment Weekly for 11 years and (in two separate stints) at People magazine and people.com for 12 years. I often speak to young journalists and try to use myself as an example for inspiration—a guy who spent time in jail, rehab and a psych ward and somehow become a successful editor at Time Inc. and managed to stay sane and alive. I’ve tried to reflect those experiences in this book.
The Dead Have A Thousand Dreams Page 18