Glimmering

by Elizabeth Hand

  “My mom, she don’t like that!”

  Jack shook his head. “I’m with her, Eben.”

  At the gate to Lazyland Jack made the boy hand the tree over. “I can get it from here,” he explained. He wanted to bring the tree down to the house himself. “But wait, here—”

  He held out a fifty-dollar bill. It wasn’t much, and for a moment he was afraid Eben would refuse to take it, or complain. But the boy only smiled, shook his head, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “Hey, no sir, you just enjoy your tree, okay? Merry Christmas!” And he spun away, whistling to himself.

  The tree was heavier than it had looked, for all that it was scrawny compared to Lazyland’s trees of yore. Jack dragged it down the driveway, looking back anxiously to see if he was leaving a trail of needles. Inside he was met by Keeley and Marz and Mrs. Iverson, who exclaimed and offered advice as to how to prop it up in the dining room until the old wrought-iron tree stand could be found.

  “It’s like Charlie Brown’s tree!” Mrs. Iverson poked the tree where it leaned against the china cupboard, gazing disapprovingly at the needles that littered the carpet beneath.

  “It’s beautiful, dear,” said Keeley. “Hush, Larena.”

  “Can I help decorate?” begged Marz.

  So then he had to go up to the attic, rooting around in one of the odd-shaped closets under the eaves until he found the boxes there, each carton big enough to hide several children and stuffed to overflowing with Christmas: garlands, plastic holly, tangled strands of dangerous-looking lights, old cards that turned to dust when he touched them, waterfalls of tinsel, ancient embossed Santas with cotton-batting beards that had frightened Jack when he was small, the wrought-iron stand (hooray!), wax balls from Germany with flowers on them, pine cones, ceramic and papier-mâché and cardboard Santas, elves, reindeer, trees, bells, chapels, snowmen, angels, and wreaths, as well as four statues of crippled boys and reformed cranks.

  Last of all he pulled out an enormous carton that contained box upon box of Sparkle-Glo ornaments: rubies and emeralds and diamonds of blown glass, purple grapes, grinning clowns and leering dogs, churches and fish and a sailing ship with tissue-paper mast and rigging of gold filigree.

  “Oh, look, look!” cried Marzana, sitting on the attic floor with legs akimbo, her belly awash in wrappings and ribbons and pine needles. She held up an icicle of blown glass, striated silver and cobalt. “They used to sell these in Rybnik!”

  Jack smiled. “Is that where you grew up?”

  The girl watched the little dagger turn slowly in the air before her. After a moment she said, “I don’t remember,” her voice distant.

  Jack waited, but she said no more. “Okay.” He picked up one of the cartons. “I don’t think you better carry any of these.”

  “But they’re not heavy!”

  “I know, but they’re big. Here, you can carry this down, okay, that’s the star for the top, just don’t drop it—”

  He made five trips, pausing on each landing to catch his breath then plunge back upward. There was only a single naked electric bulb in the old nursery attic, which cast shadows over more of the room than it lit. Outside, night was chasing the sky in harlequin colors, crimson and cadmium yellow, giving everything an expectant, febrile glow. The sensation that something was going to happen filled Jack, as well; a subcutaneous anticipation of Christmas, even a Christmas as threadbare as this one promised to be. There had been no more visits from the postman, and no word from GFI as to when he might expect the money from the sale of The Gaudy Book. So Christmas would pretty much consist of what he and Mrs. Iverson could cobble together, or from the largesse of Mrs. Delmonico. He had put aside any notion of attending GFI’s party—what could he have been thinking, with Marz ready to blow like the Hindenburg and no one but Jack and two ancients to attend her?

  He walked to the far side of the room, and stared out the row of attic windows, down the black slope to the river. There was a sequined scatter of lights upon the Palisades, where for so long there had been darkness, and farther south the luminous arch of the George Washington Bridge, red and green curves like slices of neon watermelon, nibbled black where lights had burned out on the spans. The sight should have comforted him. Instead it made him uneasy. It was like seeing Marzana in his aunt Mary Anne’s bed that first night she appeared at Lazyland—he felt certain that something was very wrong, somewhere, despite this brave false show. Any moment now he would find out what it was.

  He shivered and turned from the window. What a way to think at Christmas. Then he hefted the last carton of ornaments, switched off the attic light, and hurried downstairs to attend to the tree.

  But of course the power was down again when Jule arrived unexpectedly at Lazyland, a week and a half later. It had failed the same night that Jack and Marzana and Mrs. Iverson decorated the tree in the formal dining room, with Keeley officiating from a chair. It was not exactly resplendent. Even with the lights turned off it retained its sadly etiolated quality, and drooped in the shadow of the robust Chippendale cabinet because there was no true darkness against which the glory of glass and gold and painted tin could shine. The strings of old lights (dangerously frayed and much repaired with electrical tape) glowed bravely, but they were overshadowed by the vulgar show outside.

  Still, they all stood and admired it. Jack made some adjustments (Marz lacked a light touch with tinsel). Keeley suggested that the crenellated spike that topped the tree could perhaps go a little more to the left, and Jack was just clambering back onto the kitchen stool when—

  Eeeeep…

  Dying wail of the CO detector, chorus of clicks from answering machine; and the gallant tree went dark.

  “Nooo!” cried Marzana.

  Jack shook his head. “It was these damn lights.”

  He began the search for lanterns and candles, berating himself for not making a point of retrieving them while the power was on. You couldn’t find candles anymore, anywhere or batteries, or oil lanterns. Occasionally Jack might glimpse a flashlight behind the counter at Delmonico’s, bartered for food; but it would never find its way onto a shelf. The Delmonicos had family all across the city who needed light just like everyone else.

  In the linen closet he found an unopened box of white tapers. He tore the cellophane wrapping and removed four, thought for a moment, and replaced one. He could find his way in the dark; someone had better start finding their way in the dark. Wind clawed its way through the narrow back stairwell, brought with it shrieking laughter. He turned and pressed his face against the small oriel window that faced north, to where other mansions had once stood in line with Lazyland gazing down upon the Hudson.

  In the last few weeks he had made a deliberate effort not to look out upon them. If he saw Marz there in her customary trance, he would continue quickly up to his own room. So he never knew whether or not electric lights ever brightened the broken windows, and he tried not to think about what kind of people were inside the ruins, starving or fighting or fucking on the floor.

  Now he could not turn away.

  In the shattered buildings fires leapt, the broken windows gleamed as though they opened onto the inferno. He heard music, cymbals, and drums; someone singing. There was light within, light and music and many moving shadows. He imagined they were dancing amidst the rubble.

  It struck him, as though he had been knocked on the head: people were living out there in the ruins. They weren’t holed up like himself or the other scared customers who could barely muster the courage to raid Delmonico’s for food. They weren’t killing themselves with drink and grief like Jule, or pretending nothing had changed, like Emma. Certainly they weren’t bashing their heads against the wall because there were no candles left. If they were bashing their heads it was because they were dancing. They didn’t wear masks or helmets to protect themselves from the world; they scarcely wore clothes. He recalled Marzana’s words, her first night at Lazyland—

  They were my family. We were li
ving down by the river and the fucking cops blew us out…

  Family. The realization that something like that could be out there, just yards away, made Jack dizzy. He yanked the window open and heard singing, a complicated contrapuntal chant, women and men and children, too.

  I don’t mind the sun sometimes,

  The images it shows…

  Even if he didn’t recognize it, it was music, and had been all along. It wasn’t squatters out there in the carnival darkness, crude creatures leering at him from their gutted mansions. It was civilization.

  They’re adapting, he thought.

  The last scenes of Fantasia flashed before him, lumbering Technicolor giants on their doomed exhausted search for water, heedless of the tiny bright mammalian eyes that watched them from the shadows…

  Leaning from his window out into the December air, Jack stared up into the cold whirling sky, and heard lemurs and shrews and megazostrodons rustling in the night.

  Christmas Day was muted, as it had been for several years now. Rachel Gardino had been killed by a drunken driver on Christmas Eve, and the holiday had been poisoned by that, for Jack and his family as well as for Jule and Emma. There were a few makeshift presents exchanged: some baby clothes Mrs. Iverson dredged up from the attic and cleaned; gingersnaps hard and aromatic as amber; the copy of The King in Yellow, which Jack presented to his grandmother in its elaborate cloth wrapping. They ate by candlelight, bean soup and flatbread and dried fruit; then sang a few rounds of the more melancholy carols, “O Holy Night” and “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” and went to bed early.

  Four days after this, very early in the morning Jack heard the familiar groaning roar of the Range Rover. He groaned, slid from his bed, and trudged across the hall to look out the window. Down Hudson Terrace crept Jule’s old car, dodging potholes and piles of refuse like a tipsy dowager, a loose strand of barbed wire trailing in its wake.

  At the head of the drive it stopped. Jack watched as his friend emerged, an imposingly tall if unsteady figure in navy overcoat and fedora, brandishing a very large black umbrella. Jule walked over to the gate, regarded it balefully before starting to poke at the LED readout with the tip of his umbrella. Jule had always been intimidated by the security system, all the more so since he was one of the few people granted knowledge of the code that granted access (Leonard had paid one of his hacker minions to break it for him). Ever since the glimmering began, when Lazyland’s power came and went as casually as socialites once had, Jule’s anxiety had become outright phobic: he was terrified he would be electrocuted by the gate. Jack sat, elbows propped on the sill, and observed as Jule tried unsuccessfully to gain entry.

  After five minutes he couldn’t stand it anymore. He shoved the window open. “For Christ’s sake, Jule! There’s no power! Just get in the car and drive through!”

  Jule looked up. “But what if it comes back on?”

  “It won’t come back!”

  “But what if it does?”

  “Just drive through.”

  Jule got back into his car. Clouds of blue exhaust engulfed the end of the drive as the car nudged at the gate, until slowly it swung open. A minute later the Range Rover shuddered to a halt in front of the house. Jule got out, removing his fedora and mopping his head with a white handkerchief.

  “Now go back up and close the gate,” Jack yelled down. Jule shot him an angry look. He reached back into the car, emerging with his umbrella and a pair of bright yellow electrician’s gloves, and plodded up the drive to shut the gate. When he returned to the house, Jack was on the front porch.

  “You know, Jule, very few security gates were originally designed actually to kill people.”

  “You’re wrong, Jackie, you’re wrong. Somebody was just telling me about this thing he saw up at Pocantico Hills, this sort of electrified moat—”

  Jack ushered Jule toward the front door. “Well, our system hasn’t killed anyone yet. C’mon, it’s freezing—”

  “Yeah, but you guys could actually use something like that here.” Jule looked worriedly back at the Range Rover. “My car gonna be safe?”

  “Yes, your car is going to be safe. What, you leave Emma at home and fall apart? Jesus, just relax for five minutes, okay? You drive up to Poughkeepsie in your sleep, go into the city, and have a picnic on the fucking Major Deegan Expressway, but every time you come to my house you have a goddamn heart attack.”

  “Emma’s not feeling so good these days. And electricity makes me nervous,” Jule said meekly.

  “Then you should be very, very happy, because you will find no electricity at Lazyland today.”

  Inside there was the flurry of footsteps in the hallway, the scent of Chanel Number 19; and Jule was bending to hug first Keeley and then Mrs. Iverson.

  “Jule dear! What a surprise!”

  “I know, Grandmother, I’m sorry. Sort of unexpected, gotta do something in the city…”

  “Of course, dear, we’re just so happy to see you! How is Emma?”

  “Oh, she’s okay, just great—” He stared over their heads to Jack, who felt a bump of fear at his friend’s haunted expression. “Uh, listen, I can’t stay today, I just needed to, uh—well, I wanted to borrow Jackie.”

  Keeley’s gaze softened. “Borrow Jackie! Why, of course you can borrow him!”

  “ What?” Jack eased himself between Jule and his grandmother. “What’re you talking about, Jule?”

  “I, uh, got an errand in the city. I, well, I didn’t want to—”

  “The city.” Keeley glanced at the old grandfather clock. “Well! Do you still go down there, Jule?”

  “Sometimes.” He pulled at his collar. “Jackie?”

  Jack shook his head. He was close enough to Jule that he could smell whiskey, not just on his breath but everywhere, as though he’d doused himself with it. He had a flickering vision, the Range Rover careening through the flooded canals that had been the Merritt Parkway, a bottle tucked between Jule’s legs.

  “Jule, dear, would you like some tea?”

  “No thanks, Mrs. Iverson.” Jule’s big hands twisted his fedora. His hazel eyes were moist with supplication. “Jackie?”

  No thanks, Mr. Gardino, thought Jack. But then the chorus began shrilling in his head. What, you jumped off all those bridges for Leonard Thrope, now you can’t get into a car with your best friend?

  But he’s drunk. He’s—

  “Go ahead, dear,” said Keeley. She turned to Jule. “But you’ll have him back by tonight?”

  Jack swore under his breath; as though he were still fifteen fucking years old. “I’ll be back by tonight, Grandmother,” he said. His eyes sought Jule’s. “This better be good, Julie.”

  “Mary Anne is asleep.” Mrs. Iverson looked plaintively at Jule. “Don’t you think Emma could come down to help her have the baby?”

  Jule smiled. “That would be nice, huh? I know she’d like to…”

  “Well.” Keeley smiled bravely. “You’d better go, if you’re going to be back by dark.”

  Jack stood, trying to think of some last-minute excuse. “It’s just a few hours,” pleaded Jule.

  “Oh, all right,” Jack said, crossly. “Just let me get a few things, okay?”

  He went upstairs, fighting all the fears that assailed him—Jule’s obvious distress and the thought of leaving his grandmother alone, not to mention the girl, she could have the baby any minute—but also feeling something he hadn’t felt in years. He was going to the city with his friend. They would have an adventure. He grabbed the Fusax from his nightstand, did a quick blast from his inhaler—it was empty, he was sure of it, but prayed there might be a few bronchio-dilating atoms left to fight their way into his lungs—pulled his grandfather’s old Burberry raincoat from the closet, and went back down. On the second floor he paused to glance into Marz’s bedroom, her leviathan form beneath the blankets, white-blond hair across the pillow.

  “’Bye,” he whispered, and shut the door.

  They made their fa
rewells to Keeley and Mrs. Iverson.

  “Drive carefully.” The faintest tremor entered Keeley’s voice. “You’ll call if you’re going to be late?”

  Jack glared at Jule. “We won’t be late.”

  “Of course not,” Jule said. He leaned to kiss Keeley’s forehead, and for a moment held her tenderly. Only Jack noticed that his hands were trembling. “I promise Jackie’ll be back tonight. It’s just a quick trip into the city, people do it all the time.”

  “Do they?” Keeley murmured. “Well, be careful, boys.”

  “Get back in there!” shouted Jack. “Before you catch cold.”

  He had a glimpse of Keeley’s white face and waving hand; then the oaken door slammed shut.

  “ Now,” said Jack, following his friend to the car. “Will you tell me what the fuck is going on? Where’s Emma?”

  “I told you. She’s not feeling so good,” Jule said shortly, then fiddled with his door. “And, well, I got to take a little road trip, and I thought maybe you might want to come with me.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because you’re becoming a fucking agoraphobic, that’s why. I think so, and Emma thinks so—”

  “Emma thinks I should get in a car with you?”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake! You’ve been in a car with me a hundred thousand times—”

  “Jule, you’re drunk.”

  Jule looked hurt. “You used to drive with me when I was drunk.”

  “Oh, forget it. Look, Jule, why don’t I try calling someone—”

  “Fuck you.” Jule’s tone was even. He smiled affably, pulling the door open and easing his bulk into the seat. “Just get in the fucking car, Jackie. You know, Emma tried to have a, a what-you-call-it—an intervention. Because I’m an alcoholic. Ha! Like where the fuck they gonna lock me up? Her and some people we know at home, this guy from the hospital and Edgar Evans.” Edgar was senior partner at Jule’s old law firm. “You know what I did?”