The Lightest Object in the Universe: A Novel

by Eisele, Kimi

  Then there was barking. The dogs had come back.

  “Beatrix, get up.” Flash was standing above her. She saw muddied blue sneakers running toward her, then lifting off the ground. Flash grabbed the runner, a girl in a jean jacket, and tied her arms.

  Where the hell was Gary? Beatrix looked to Flash, who now stood still, looking oddly young and timid. “Help him!” she yelled as Diego lashed Charlie.

  Nearby, a dog had clamped on to a PBB rider’s pant leg, and a hefty boy was yanking Frida’s hair. Beatrix reached for stones on the ground and threw them, hitting the boy in the forehead. He staggered back. Beatrix hurled another rock, this time hitting the dog.

  A girl with braids came running and bent over the dog. “Eddie! Oh, Eddie, please be okay.”

  It was the girl who’d attacked Beatrix on the street a couple of months ago. The girl who’d savored the chocolate.

  “Tie her up, Beatrix!” Frida said, tossing zip ties to her, then going to help Charlie.

  Beatrix crawled toward the girl, who was whispering into the dog’s ear and stroking its coat. The girl looked at Beatrix, then pointed toward the top of the hill, where another group was descending.

  Beatrix’s heart sank. No. They could not fight off any more kids.

  But the people coming were not kids and they were not running. They were adults from the neighborhood, walking briskly, with purpose, their arms full of . . . bags? Trays? Jugs of water?

  “Are they bringing food?” the girl asked.

  Off to the right, Diego ran toward Flash, something glinting in his hand. Beatrix yelled and picked up a rock from the ground. “He has a knife!” she shouted, just as Diego lunged into Flash.

  “No!” Beatrix looked to Gary, who removed the gun from his holster and shot it into the air. And then everything went still and silent.

  When sound returned, it came from Flash. A singular high note. He pitched forward, his mouth open, his hands at his abdomen, bleeding. As he fell, the note lowered into a deep, rasping groan.

  Beatrix rushed to him, opened his jacket, and pressed her hands into the expanding lake of blood at his belly. “Flash, can you hear me?” She moved Flash’s hands to look at the wound, but there was too much blood.

  The dog came to Flash, along with the girl with braids, who knelt down and put her hand on Flash’s arm. “Find your wings within,” she whispered. She looked at Beatrix. “Tell him. It worked for Eddie.”

  Flash’s eyes flickered from the girl to Beatrix, his breath labored and uneven. He shook again, and then a sound came from his throat that was neither cry nor call nor joke nor song. And then there was no sound at all, and something rose up, a wisp of exhale, a thin invisible stream that Beatrix sensed but could not see.

  Beatrix felt another hole pierce through her heart.

  After a little while, the girl said, “I’m the only one free.” She held up her hands. “I’m the only one not tied up.”

  Beatrix looked around. Indeed, all the other T-Rize kids had been bound with zip ties. Where was Dragon? Frida?

  “Is he dead?” the girl asked.

  The cavity of darkness expanded in Beatrix’s chest. She lowered her head, and the tears fell freely.

  Frida and Dragon came across the field, carrying two large crates, which they dropped to the ground when they saw Flash down. “Dear God,” Frida said.

  “He was from The Red Raven, wasn’t he?” the girl said, her voice small and strained. “I recognized his voice.”

  Dragon ran to his fallen friend.

  “From the depths of despair and desperation comes the red feather of hope,” said the heavy boy, imitating Flash’s narrator voice.

  “Yeah, that one,” the girl said.

  “That’s not how I pictured him,” said the boy.

  “Wait, that’s the Red Raven?” one of the jean-jacket girls said. “We love the Red Raven.”

  “Shut up!” said the girl. “Just be quiet, everyone.”

  Beatrix stood up and walked away from the group, trembling, trying to breathe. She scanned the sky again, longing to see something there. Something moving. A kite. A hawk. Anything besides the white-hot sun.

  After a while, one of the neighbors approached her. It was the man with the radio from the park where people gathered to listen. He put his arm beneath her and held her up. “Deep breaths,” he said. “Long, steady deep breaths.” Then he said, “We went to the station last night to find out what was going on with the show. We came as backup, to support. I’m just sorry we didn’t get here sooner.”

  Two men helped Frida load the cables and wires and radios that had spilled to the ground back into the crates. The rest carried around bottles and baskets and offered water and food—breads and apples and jerky and hard-boiled eggs. And because the children were zip-tied, the adults peeled the eggs and tore bits of the bread and bit off bite-sized pieces of apple, and fed them.

  Rosie walked through a neighborhood that reminded her of her own. Bicyclists moved down carless streets. People stood in line with buckets and bottles at a bicycle-drawn water truck. A group of children bowled with a ball and plastic soda bottles.

  On a corner, a small crowd gathered around a man shouting into a bullhorn about “the casinos, empty vessels, liabilities.” Nearby, she saw a bicycle with a PBB decal locked to a lamppost. Her stomach jumped. PBB? Here? Someone she knew? She sat down on the sidewalk next to the bike to wait.

  A young man wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a red backpack came to unlock the bike. Rosie stood up, her heart quickening.

  “Hey,” he said, pushing the hood off his head.

  Rosie stared at him in silence.

  “You got something to say?” he said, wrapping the chain around the seat stem. “What? We gotta play charades?” His eyes bulged, and he stuck out his tongue. She thought of Flash. She smiled.

  “Whoa, you have cool eyes. One blue and one brown. Never seen that before.”

  She looked at him and blinked.

  “How about this, then?” he said, pulling a notebook and pen out of his messenger bag and handing it to her.

  I need to get over, she wrote, and pointed at the mountains.

  “Oh!” he said. “Well, that’s not gonna be that easy. Where did you come from?”

  She pointed to the mountains.

  “How did you get here?”

  Foot. Wagon. Van. Car.

  “A car? Lucky you. Where you coming from?”

  The Center. Rosie dropped the pencil then, her hand trembling.

  “No shit. Seriously?”

  Rosie clamped her eyes shut, and on the other side of her eyelids, it all played out again—Jesús’s hat, Abuela’s bun, the chocolate tablet, the men in white, Jonathan Blue’s eyes and arms, the bodies falling. All those bodies.

  When she opened her eyes, she could not see the young man in front of her as anyone other than Flash, and because she did not know what else to do, she began to cry. Deep, wrenching sobs she hadn’t ever heard from herself before. The boy reached out and patted Rosie’s back, woodenly but sweetly.

  His name was Ralph. He walked her a few blocks to a yellow house with a dried yellow lawn. “My sister, Clare, lives here,” he said. “It’s kind of”—he opened the front door—“temporary.”

  The front hallway was padded with dingy carpeting and smelled like old bananas. A tie-dyed tapestry was pinned loosely on the wall. Ralph led Rosie into the living room, where a stick-thin woman lay on the sofa, her stringy blond hair waterfalling over its edge.

  “Clare, hi. This is—” He turned to Rosie. “What’s your name?”

  Rosie paused, then wrote Rose on the notebook. A new name to try on.

  “This is Rose,” Ralph said.

  Clare lifted her head and looked out through heavy eyelids.

  “Poppy tea,” Ralph said. “She’s addicted. If she offers you any, don’t take it. Shit is evil.”

  Clare’s eyes fluttered back in her head, and her hand flopped against the table. She loo
ked like someone who was once pretty, Rosie thought.

  Water bottles lined the floor along one wall. Ralph picked one up and handed it to Rosie. He took her long coat and hung it over a chair in the dining room. He led her to the backyard, where there was a fire pit, and a swimming pool half filled with slimy green water. Three bicycles were stacked against the wall of the house.

  Ralph opened up a metal trunk and pulled out some dried apples and a biscuit, which he handed to Rosie. “Supposed to get some meat later tonight,” he said.

  A man with thick arms and muscular thighs came into the yard.

  “Rose, this is Bobby, my sister’s boyfriend. Bobby, this is Rose. I’m gonna try to help her find a way to get west, over the mountains, back to her family. Right, Rose?”

  Bobby looked kind of like a movie star, maybe from Greece or somewhere, with dark eyes and bushy eyebrows. “You going that far away?” he said.

  Rosie nodded and took another bite of apple.

  “So I’m gonna go check on some things,” Ralph said, standing up and brushing his hands on his pants. “First, I’ll see if my friends can help you get where you need to go. Can you ride a bike?”

  Rosie nodded.

  “Can you hang here till I get back? Bobby, don’t give her any of that tea, you hear me?”

  Bobby pulled something long, green, and stringy from the pool and slapped it onto the concrete. “I hear you.”

  Rosie wanted to lie down somewhere and sleep, but she didn’t want to go back into the living room with Clare. She hoped Ralph wouldn’t be long. She sat down on a plastic chair and stretched her legs out.

  She felt Bobby’s eyes on her and pulled up her legs, crossing them and folding her arms over them. Bobby looked away and fiddled with a radio. “Let’s see what we can get here,” he said.

  Rosie recoiled from the radio like it might bite her. She covered her ears and wrapped her feet around the legs of the chair.

  The initial static gave way to voices. “Have you heard this show?” he said. “It’s pretty cool.”

  Rosie lifted her hands from her ears.

  “Hey, Reilly, can you give a hand? We need help with this shelter.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “We’re doing it the Amish way. Everyone helps everyone raise the roof.”

  “Happy to help.”

  “This here’s a roof for Wren. Do you know her? Over there. The woman in the blue coat.”

  Rosie put her hand to her mouth, incredulous. How had they broadcast this far?

  “It’s about this, the darkness, only things are worse than they are here. Except for this raven. A super-raven,” Bobby said, his eyes again moving over her body. “And when he’s not a raven, he’s just a dude. It’s a good show.”

  I know, thought Rosie. I know all about it. She pulled off her worn sneakers and socks and placed her feet in the pool. The water was cold, but it felt like medicine for her bones. She put her hand to her mouth again, this time to cover up a smile, as Flash’s voice said: “From the depths of despair and desperation comes the red feather of hope. No more despair, no more fear. The wondrous Red Raven is here. Finding the wings within . . . The Red Raven.”

  “Girl, you need some new shoes,” Bobby said, pointing to Rosie’s sneakers, which were nearly worn through at the soles. “Maybe Clare has something to fit you. Wanna go check?”

  Rosie hesitated but then followed him inside. She did need better shoes. In the living room, Clare was staring into the flame of a candle. “Check this out, Bobby,” she said. “It’s like an enchanted forest.”

  Bobby moved to her quickly and blew the candle out. “Be careful, baby! You’re gonna set your hair on fire.”

  Rosie felt a tickle start in her throat as Bobby led her down the hallway to a bedroom with a big walk-in closet. Shoes covered the carpeting—pumps, knee-high leather boots, Birkenstocks, wedge sandals, and several pairs of sneakers. “Look at these,” Bobby said, stepping deeper into the closet.

  Rosie reached for a black sneaker with neon-orange laces.

  “Come here,” Bobby said, suddenly grabbing her arm. He pulled her closer and shoved his lips onto hers.

  Rosie pushed him forcefully, kneeing him in the groin. He fell into a shelf of sweaters, and she ran out of the room, down the hallway. She grabbed her coat, a water jug, and a backpack from the table, then hurried out of the house.

  She jogged to the end of the block, then stopped. She opened up the backpack and found a solar bike light, a jar of peaches, and a ziplock baggie filled with half a dozen letters. This was the backpack Ralph had been wearing, she realized, wondering why he’d left it behind. She pulled out one of the letters. Addressed to Grandma B. Neddle, in a child’s handwriting.

  Rosie smelled the scent of her own abuela—a blend of cinnamon, wheat flour, and vinegar. The scent was pleasant, but it dizzied her. She put her hands on her cheeks, as if to hold her head steady.

  So Ralph was part of the mail service—what was it called?—and these were his letters to deliver. She had to take them back.

  She went back to the house and opened the front door quietly. Strange noises came from the living room: grunting and breaths and moans. She tiptoed down the hallway. Bobby was on the sofa now, naked, the muscles in his back flexing as he moved up and down. Clare was underneath him, one of her long legs dangling. Rosie flinched at the sight of them, remembering Diego on top of her in the same way. She scooted quietly along the wall to the dining room and left the letters on the table.

  She silently slid open the glass door to the pool and went outside to the bikes. She pulled the first one off the stack. The gate leading outside was padlocked, so she had no choice but to go back through the house.

  Only Clare was in the living room now, sprawled out on the sofa, eyes closed. Shit. Where was Bobby? Rosie’s heart raced as she wheeled the bike down the hallway to the front door. When she opened it, Bobby was there in only his boxer shorts.

  “Where you off to?” he said, as if nothing had happened.

  Rosie jumped on the bike and rode down the walkway and down the steps. She sped down the block into the evening dusk.

  She rode to the homeless park and rested there for a while. The cinnamon-colored dog found her again and together they curled up beneath Rosie’s long coat.

  At dawn, Rosie woke, bid farewell to the dog, and rode out of the park, following signs for the interstate. She passed a wagon and a slow-moving car, both traveling east. She came to the on-ramp, inhaled into the cold, and headed toward the mountains.

  CHAPTER 19

  Beatrix strained to remember the feel of Carson’s hands on her. Even with the arrival of his letter, he had become blurry. If she didn’t see him in person soon, she knew he would dissolve completely.

  For now, Flash remained perfectly vivid, outlined in movement. Beatrix saw him plainly: Strumming the guitar. Standing up on his bicycle, pedaling tight figure eights. She could hear his voice, too, its singsong clarity, a long-lingering adolescent trill. Awesome blossom!

  Rosie was still vivid, too. Her two-toned eyes. Her giggle and sass.

  Sitting on the front porch, Beatrix closed her eyes and listened to her own breath. She let the blackness fill her. When she opened her eyes, Gary was coming up the walkway.

  “May I join you?” he said.

  Beatrix nodded and scooted over.

  “The new transmitter is up and running,” he said. “All set for tonight’s broadcast, the one everyone’s been waiting for.”

  “Bless you,” Beatrix said, her eyes welling with tears.

  They sat quietly together on the step.

  “I’m so sorry,” Gary said.

  Beatrix put her hand on his. “Flash liked you a lot,” she said. “He helped me see you.”

  “And me, you,” Gary said.

  At the end of the block, a fleet of bicycles passed, at least five or six of them, gliding fast down the pavement. Beatrix cursed. But then she remembered: most of the T-Rize had disappeared
after the Gold Mine.

  “Let the rehabilitation begin,” Gary said.

  “Let’s hope,” Beatrix said.

  “In the meantime, we stay vigilant,” Gary said.

  Beatrix nodded. The tears came then, and she let them fall. Gary put his arms around her.

  After a while, Beatrix said, “It’s a different world.”

  Gary tilted his head to the side. “In many ways, yes. But in some ways, no.”

  She remembered that he’d seen things she’d never seen, knew things she didn’t know. “I was naive,” she said.

  “No,” Gary said. He clasped his fingers around hers. “Just fiercely hopeful. Please don’t give up now.” He added, “It’s going to be a good show tonight.”

  “It is,” Beatrix said, smiling. “Thank you. Thank you so much for believing in it.”

  “Are you kidding?” he said, getting up to leave. “I love Reilly Crawford. I’d do anything for that guy.”

  Gary walked away, and another flurry of cyclists swirled by at the end of the block. They moved like insects, tiny and quick, as if skimming across water. Beatrix multiplied them into a parade in her head, a procession of riders against the sky, a moving horizon.

  At dusk, Beatrix and Dragon sat together on a bench in the park to listen to the broadcast. “It’s what Flash would have wanted,” Dragon said.

  Beatrix recognized other neighbors—the Irishman and his wife, a woman wearing earmuffs and her grinning partner. A pair of young girls, sisters, held sticks into the fire, with their father looking anxiously on. They commented back and forth about the Red Raven, making the others laugh.

  “If I had wings, I’d save everyone here from meanness,” one said.

  “If I had wings, I’d fly all the way across the ocean,” said the other.

  Dragon put his arm around Beatrix.

  Anita and her husband came then, along with Rog and Finn. “We haven’t missed anything yet, right?” Finn said.

  As the prologue began, Beatrix thought of the cast huddled in Gary’s garage. She squeezed Dragon’s hand tightly as the new narrator spoke. One of the T-Rize kids, the one with the voice they’d all heard that day at the Gold Mine. Thelma had made him a deal: he could have Flash’s part if he left the gang.