The Lightest Object in the Universe: A Novel

by Eisele, Kimi

  Carson walked alongside the couple and their boys, who were taking turns shooting rocks into the sky with a slingshot. Carson wondered what he could trade them for it.

  “We lost everything,” Claudia told him. “I mean, I still have Randy and my boys. But what kind of life can I give them now? I worked so hard to have enough to give. But now? Now there’s nothing.”

  “And something there will fill you?” he said.

  Claudia stopped and faced Carson. She was an attractive woman, he realized—smiling eyes, long eyelashes. She put her fingertips to her chest and tapped. “The Center,” she said. “What else is there to try? Where else is there to go?”

  Carson waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he tried to imagine her floating up into the air. Jonathan Blue’s Ascension. He looked up at the sky and wondered what the trick might be—helium? An IV of uppers?

  The boys passed them then, their gangly bodies scuffling along, picking up rocks and stuffing them into their pockets. “Check this out,” the younger one shouted. He was loading the slingshot with a golf ball–sized rock. “I’m gonna fling this one so far you’re gonna cry.” He pulled the slingshot back and let go. The rock shot through the air like a slow, fat bird, then dropped to the ground with a thud.

  “Jeez, why all the books on this staircase?” Flash called out, walking into Beatrix’s apartment. “What’s that smell?” he said.

  “Comfrey,” Beatrix said. “Maria del Carmen insists I apply it twice a day.”

  “It looks like spinach,” he said, setting down the shoebox and reaching out to touch the goop on Beatrix’s calf.

  “It’s a wonder she gave it to me at all she was so angry about what had happened. She even told me not to go out again,” Beatrix said. “And I’m considering following her orders.”

  “No, you’re not,” Flash said.

  “Right. But damn, this hurts,” she said, lifting up her leg.

  “What’s up with all those books?” Flash said.

  “They’re for the mobile library,” Beatrix said. Before her injury, Beatrix and Rosie had been inventorying library books, and they’d stacked them on each step as a way to organize them. Anita’s husband was outfitting a bike trailer with shelves and sitting cushions.

  “I have a sinking suspicion I’ll be one of the riders hauling that trailer.”

  Beatrix smiled. “Good deeds, remember?”

  “I remember,” he said. He reached for the small case of lip balm. “What’s this? More goop?”

  “For your lips,” she said.

  Flash smeared some on, then looked at her and smiled.

  She handed him one end of a strip of cloth. “Hold this,” she said, wrapping the other end around her leg, covering the poultice. “How is Dragon?”

  “He’s asleep at the moment. The nurse neighbor came by yesterday and said to keep giving him fluids. And he did drink Maria del Carmen’s tea earlier, so there’s that.”

  Beatrix circled the bandage around her leg, and when she got to the end of the cloth, Flash reached over to tuck in the last bit. The gesture was so tender and Dragon was still so sick that a lump formed in Beatrix’s throat, then quickly dissolved into tears.

  “Oh God, did I hurt you?” Flash said, confused.

  “No. No, no.” The tears continued, and now there was a heaving in her chest. Just months ago, Flash and Dragon had been complete strangers to her. Now, she couldn’t imagine not ever knowing them.

  Flash had his arm around her now but remained quiet and still. When Beatrix’s sobs grew deeper, he said, “It’s okay, Beatrix. It’s okay.”

  She looked at him, her face melting. “But what if it’s not? What if Dragon doesn’t get better?”

  Flash scooted closer, and Beatrix let herself fold into him. After a while, she stopped crying and listened to Flash’s heartbeat.

  Someone knocked, and Flash opened the door to Gary, who was carrying another shoebox.

  “More lanterns?” Beatrix said, wiping her eyes.

  “I can come back if this a bad time,” Gary said.

  “No. It’s okay,” she said.

  “I need to go check on Dragon,” Flash said, giving Beatrix a wink. They were convinced Gary had a crush on Beatrix. She didn’t exactly hate the attention.

  “Thanks for those radios,” Flash said. “We made some families pretty happy.”

  “You bet,” Gary said. “Are you wearing lipstick?” he said to Beatrix as Flash left.

  Beatrix held up the case. “Want some?”

  “I’m good,” he said. He glanced down at Beatrix’s bandage. “How is the leg?”

  “Better,” she said. “I’m supposed to stay off it for a day or two.”

  Gary gestured to the sofa and handed her the box. “Not lanterns,” he said.

  Inside was a bundled-up red-and-black plaid flannel shirt. Beneath that was a small black handgun. Beatrix nearly choked on her own gasp. “Oh God.”

  Adrenaline rose up in her, and she handed the box back quickly. “Sorry. Nope,” she said. “Violence only begets—”

  “Beatrix, listen,” he said. “You’re out there every day, riding your bike all over the place. It’s not safe.”

  “And you think a gun automatically makes me safer?” She thought of the T-Rize girl eating the chocolate. Chain or no chain, was she supposed to pull a gun on a twelve-year-old girl?

  “They’re not always going to be won over with chocolate. And you really are a valuable part of this neighborhood. You’re not one to lock yourself inside. You ought to have some protection.”

  Gary confused her. He was wrong, but he was also right: she was not one to stay barricaded inside.

  “What’s wrong with chocolate?” she said. “Maybe I can just stock everyone with it.”

  It was a stupid thing to say. Beatrix looked at the bandage. The poultice had gone from cool to hot. Her leg was throbbing.

  “I admire your idealism, Beatrix.”

  “But,” she said, feeling annoyed.

  “Just hold on to it for now,” he said, glancing at the gun, then looking back at her, holding his gaze.

  “I have no idea how to even use a gun,” she said.

  “I’ll teach you,” he said, heading for the door. “By the way, the station’s all set for the radio story crew this evening.”

  Beatrix felt her heart sink a little. “I’m ordered to stay here and heal,” she said. “But I’ll be listening.” And before he closed the door behind him, she called out, “Thank you.”

  Rosie pulled a skein of yarn out of the basket and searched for a loose end. She wanted to go thank the chicken man—Mr. Green?—who’d given some of his yarn to Beatrix. But how? She still wasn’t allowed to go anywhere. She hadn’t said a word yet to anyone about Diego and wasn’t planning to anytime soon. But after Beatrix’s attack, Abuela had her on lockdown.

  She held up the yarn—sea blue, the color of her left eye. The color of everything lately. The color of the space inside her heart that Diego had left there. She felt like a prisoner. Inside her own body. A prisoner of silence.

  In Rosie’s replay of the tent scene, she sometimes edited the ending. In one version, she shouted, “Enough!”—so loud that Diego was flung backward against the tent wall, which tore from the impact, leaving him in a crumple on the grass. In another, she clamped down on the machinery between his legs, forcing a deafening, defeated howl from his mouth. In yet another, she just completely vanished from the scene, dissolved like sugar in water from beneath Diego’s body.

  To make a God’s eye, she wrapped blue yarn around the sticks: under, over, under, over. Diego. What a jerk. They didn’t belong together.

  The one place Rosie did belong was in the house on Halcyon, with Beatrix, Flash, and Dragon. She stopped weaving for a moment and looked down at the design. This one would be for Dragon, she decided. To help him get better.

  But now, Abuela wanted to take her somewhere else, because of what some preacher was promising. It totally suck
ed. What could she do?

  Beatrix was hell-bent on making sure Abuela didn’t fall under Blue’s spell. That was why she was so crazy about making sure everyone in town had a transistor radio. And now, this Red Raven character was supposed to become Abuela’s new guru? What were the chances?

  Rosie had her own campaign going: promising to pray, clean the house, fill the tincture bottles, massage Abuela’s hands daily. But Abuela was stubborn.

  They’d gotten into several arguments about it already. “Why don’t you just go? I’ll stay here!” Rosie had shouted. Abuela had quietly left the room. Rosie felt horrible. At the end of the day, if Rosie belonged to anyone, she belonged to her grandmother.

  Was it possible that things were better at the Center? Maybe what Jonathan Blue said was true. Maybe there were more comforts. Maybe there was power and water that you didn’t have to haul from a horse-drawn cart. Maybe there was enough water to get clean for real. Around here, Rosie never felt she got clean enough, which was especially disgusting when she had her period. Her period. Crapola. She prayed it would come this month.

  Rosie felt sick as she thought again about what she and Diego had done. He had lied to her and deceived her. And she could not afford a little T-Rize baby. No. No. No.

  As the sky outside dimmed, Rosie threaded the blue yarn, over, under, over, under, around and around until she finished the God’s eye. She placed it in the basket with the rest of the yarn and pulled out two new sticks. Maybe she’d just sit here in the dark and make God’s eyes for the rest of her life.

  Her eyes welled with tears. “‘Heart, we will forget him,’” she said to no one. She tossed the yarn in the basket, then went to Abuela’s altar, where she prayed for a small red miracle.

  “Rosie!” Beatrix called from the backyard. “Maria del Carmen! Come outside—the show’s about to start.”

  The show. Rosie had nearly forgotten. Tonight was the first episode of The Red Raven.

  Gathered at the picnic table outside were Rog and Finn from the garden, along with Anita and her husband from down the block. A fire was going, and the small radio Abuela always listened to sat at the center of the table, like some sort of consecrated object. Abuela took a cup of medicinal tea to Dragon, who huddled in the lawn chair, bundled in a blanket.

  “I’m so excited about this,” Anita said. “Taking our little Halcyon Radio to a whole new level.”

  Rog turned the radio dial, and Jonathan Blue’s voice came out of the small speaker. “This is an invitation for expansion. It is not just you and your tiny body, your tiny innards. It is everyone around you, right here and beyond here. This is what it means to join together. We are waiting.”

  “Oh Jesus,” Beatrix said. “Turn the knob, Rog, hurry.”

  “The darkness has allowed us to see. You might still want that material thing. But it wasn’t ever material.”

  “Ten-eighty, right? That’s where I am, Beatrix. Shit.”

  “Now, here, you can see it. There is light. Unplugged, you yourself are now the ground. You are the current.”

  Beatrix gently pushed Rog aside. “Let me try.”

  “We have created this. This is the future present.”

  “This is messed-up,” Beatrix said, one hand on the dial, the other hand yanking at her hair. “You’re kidding! We’re right there. Ten-eighty AM. Halcyon Radio. This is where it is on the dial.”

  “We are continuing to create. We are rising.”

  “This is bullshit,” Anita said, trying the dial. “A little to the right or a little to the left. Either way. Everywhere, it’s him.”

  “You will not need anything. Just come.”

  Beatrix looked at the others, her eyes wide, her mouth open. “This can’t be happening. Where’s Halcyon Radio? The Red Raven! Where the hell is it?”

  Rosie had never seen Beatrix so upset. But she understood. She could feel her fury and sorrow right there, just like her own.

  CHAPTER 11

  On the seventh day of walking, the Pilgrims crested a small hill and saw before them an illuminated valley. Descending into the glow, they were greeted by a group of six men and three women, all of them armed.

  “Welcome,” said one of the men in a loud, firm voice. “You’ve been traveling a long time. You are safe now, but you’ll need to leave all of your belongings right here.”

  As he spoke, the others encircled the group. Some of the Pilgrims murmured fearfully. Carson heard Randy say, “It’s okay. They probably do this to everyone.”

  Right, thought Carson. They couldn’t let some rogue terrorist into paradise.

  “This is just protocol,” said one of the guards, her hand atop the pistol at her hip. “A necessary preamble you’ll soon forget.”

  The Pilgrims dropped their bags and backpacks in a pile and let the greeters pat them down. Carson hesitated. If he wasn’t planning on staying, did he really have to give over everything?

  “Is there a problem?” said the woman with the pistol.

  “No,” Carson said. “It’s just—” He paused. “Will I get my things back?”

  “If you’re not suited to stay, yes,” she said.

  Carson pulled out his notebook, then left his pack with the rest, hoping he hadn’t just made a huge mistake.

  They were led past rows of canvas tents. A woman leaned out from one of them, her long blond hair draping over her shoulders, and did the strange hand gesture, hands open at her chest. His skepticism rising, Carson had the momentary desire to throw something, a ball, to see if she’d catch it.

  A bearded man in a white tunic passed them on the path and bowed his head, whispering, “Welcome.” From another tent came the sound of singing. Carson imagined that any minute Jimi Hendrix might strum loudly. But instead, a tidy young man with cropped hair came and spoke with a formal and succinct voice. “Welcome. Good of you to come. We’ll go to the meet the greeters.”

  They continued along a path. Off to the right was a tangle of shrubs and trees, where Carson suspected there might be a riverbank. The air felt damp and fresh. They passed a dirt clearing where five large sculptures stood. They were made from wood scraps, cobbled together and painted white. An arrow pointing upward, an ampersand, an infinity sign, circles bisected by a vertical beam, and a very tall cross that reminded Carson of the sculpture of Jesus Christ he’d seen pictures of in Rio de Janeiro, arms reaching out across the sky like white wings.

  They arrived at a cluster of stone buildings. Carson noticed the mortar was solid and intact. A restored old homestead from the 1800s, or new construction? He placed his hand on one of the cold stones, just as a Pilgrim called out, “They’re coming.”

  Half a dozen women in long skirts came, carrying ceramic pitchers from which they poured clear water into small mugs and passed them around. Carson gulped the water down and immediately regretted it. A basket of small, dense cookies arrived in front of him.

  “Hockey pucks,” Claudia said, leaning in to Carson. “My neighbor used to make stuff like this all the time as part of her Paleo diet. I thought at least they’d have chocolate chips.” She sounded disappointed but bit into one anyway.

  Carson held the cookie up. It was rock-hard, and full of seeds and grains and yellowish chunks of something. His palms had started sweating. No matter what his intention, there was always the possibility he might not get out of this place. He dropped the hockey puck into his pocket.

  Three women in skirts and three bearded men emerged from the building and formed a line, inviting them all to be “received.”

  “Will they give you a long skirt to wear?” Carson whispered to Claudia.

  She shrugged. “Could be worse.” She moved with Randy and the boys to the line. Carson followed.

  There was a lot of shaking hands, nodding, and gazing, but Carson revised his initial assessment. This place lacked the color of a late ’60s hippie fest—everyone seemed too stiff. The last greeter was a woman with dark eyebrows that met above her nose. “Welcome,” she said, lifting and
lowering the eyebrow quickly.

  They were shown to their quarters, men one way, women another. In the regrouping, he lost track of Claudia and Randy. From the twelve beds in the platform tent, Carson chose a bottom bunk and stretched out on it.

  A large, muscular man climbed to the bunk above him. “Nothing like paradise,” he said as the bunk creaked. “Feels good to finally be here, doesn’t it?”

  Carson lay in the darkness, wishing he felt that same sense of comfort. He knew a view of the stars would give that to him, and he considered dragging the mattress outside. But he didn’t want to draw attention, so he closed his eyes and slept.

  Every time Beatrix checked AM 1080, Blue’s voice droned on. According to the PBB riders who’d gone out to survey, Halcyon Radio had been off the air for at least four days before they’d discovered Blue’s intrusion.

  “How is this possible?” Beatrix asked Gary.

  “On FM stations, it’s called encroachment,” he said. “It’s when one station has more power than another. Doesn’t usually apply to AM, but my guess is that Blue has a network of stations and is using something called a translator to repeat his signal farther.”

  “Whoa! You think Blue actually heard us on the air?” Flash asked, sounding a little too excited. Beatrix shot him an irritated look.

  “But how did he get on our frequency?” Beatrix asked. “We had that station. You heard the reports from the PBB. People were tuned in to Halcyon miles away. Before Blue took over.” Beatrix shook her head and sighed.

  Gary cleared his throat. “I doubt he’s intentionally jamming our station.”

  Beatrix shrugged. “We don’t know that.”

  “Well, no, and we might not ever know. What’s more likely is that if our signal didn’t carry—because it’s not powerful enough—Blue wouldn’t have heard us. So he would have thought AM ten-eighty was open. Of course, the FCC would have made all of this impossible. But—”