“Memory, son, is a fragile thing,” he says, shrinking back from me. “One never knows.”
“Oh, forget it,” I turn away, looking blankly into the dark outline of the balcony right there, opposite ours, trying not to think, not to taste the salt of my tears.
And then, out of nowhere, the shoreline comes to mind.
Perhaps out there, somewhere along the beach—buried under some decay, under the Dead Man’s Fingers, deep down under layers and layers of sand—are those long lost traces: the footprints of a father and a son, pressing on together, side by side in a zigzag fashion, left left, right right, as far as you can imagine.
If you could somehow uncover them, and dig them—ever so carefully—out of the dirt, and dust them off, and preserve them, as if they were some cherished, calcified relics of an ancient tribe, then... Who knows. Perhaps then, you could bring back that which has passed, and name these two strangers; name them as We, once more.
Until then, there is only this moment. I can tell he wants to write, so nothing, nothing is being said right now between the two of us.
A Wall. A Space. A Wall
Chapter 12
That night I lay there, wide awake, annoyed by my misfortune, having to listen to the creaking of their bed. I cannot help thinking, Oh no, not again; not like last night!
Well, what do you expect? The walls are so thin here, in this apartment building, that you can easily hear snores and sighs—not only of the old man, but also of the next door neighbors. The pipes are gurgling inside the walls. And if not for the wind outside my window, which is sucking the blinds in, sucking them out, you could probably hear what some kid—out there, in the next building down the street—mumbles in his dream.
Unable to fall asleep I clap my hands over my ears, trying to ignore these sounds; trying to stop thinking. Stop, I say. Stop thinking about that woman, Anita, separated from you by a wall, a space, a wall.
She is lying there, next to my father, in that large, creaking four poster bed, which used to belong to my mom. Maybe—like me—Anita is tossing off her blankets right this minute, and shivering there, in the dark. I rise up. I lie down. I imagine stepping in, looking into her eyes. Does she close them, so as not to take in the faint, colorless moonlight, which is thrown back from the walls? I imagine touching her curls. In what shade are they glinting there, on the blue pillow?
And through the wall, the space, the wall, can Anita hear the pounding, the loud pounding of my heart? Can she feel me, breathing her name? Does she whisper back to me, Stop it, stop it right now?
Does Anita, then, turn away from me, to his side of the bed? Is she staring at the dark outline, the outline of his heavy back, his shoulder, set against the crushed sheets?
Does she move over, and try to cuddle him? And then—having done so—does she feel lost, even more than before, in that place? If not for the roof overhead, for which only he can provide, would she, perhaps, prefer me to him?
I wonder if at this point, Anita is removing her arms and legs from around the old man, thinking, perhaps, that to cling to him is like clinging to a fish, because really, he is much too slick for her. Now that they are married, he may take his affairs elsewhere; which is exactly what he did when mom was here.
My father may never give up his secrets; never be fully open with a girl like her. Perhaps he thinks her too vivacious, too young, or too simple. Perhaps there is no woman to whom he can truly connect. Here is one thing I hope she knows: she deserves better.
There it is, that sound again. It starts by squeaking and ends by creaking. My father must have rolled over, out of her reach. Is she closing her eyes, so as not to see, not to take in the light?
At last I can no longer take it, and get the hell up. I walk in the middle of the shadows, step out of the corridor, into the hall, the living room, around the white piano, heading in the direction of the balcony. I slide open the glass door, cross the threshold. I lean over the railing, breathing, breathing the night air, and no: not really thinking about her. Not at all.
His desk, taking nearly the entire space of the balcony, is a massive old piece of furniture, which has been beaten by use, and by the weather. My father refuses to bring it in—not only because of the lack of room, but because here, only here in the open, his mind is at peace. It can roam free, he claims, without interruptions, and without clutter.
A thick glass has been floated on top of his desk, to protect it from the elements. In the center of the surface is a small desk lamp, turned off. The tape recorder is here, on the left side. It is shrouded with a plastic cover, which is reflected, rather faintly, in the glass below. I remove the shroud, and find a tape already loaded. Then, out of an old habit, I press Rewind. Record.
One day you will hear my voice. You will know me. What can I say, but this—
Reflected on the right side of the desk is a cloud, moving slowly, veiling and unveiling the moon. Under it—I mean, under the shine of the mirrored cloud—I notice something else, lying flat: a bunch of lined, yellow papers stapled together, written in his hand. For a minute I hesitate, because what my father has written, what he has protected here, under the glass, with such care, must be private—but then, I find myself so curious, and the hell with privacy! I am his son, after all...
So I lift the edge of the glass—just a bit—and take hold of the stapled corner, and slide the papers out. They swish in my hand.
Which is when I hear a soft voice out of the darkness behind me, asking, “Who’s there?”
To which I whisper, “It’s me: Ben.”
“You shouldn’t do that,” she says.
So I ask, “Do what?”
And Anita says, “You know: read his stuff.”
“Oh, that,” I say. “I was just bored.”
“Bored?” she says, yawning, “I ain’t surprised. His writing will get you that way in a big hurry.”
Anyhow, she can see for herself that the papers are nearly unreadable, because his letters are small, and drawn in blue ink, which seems blurry in the starlight. Leaning closer, she turns the lamp on for me. And as soon as the first sentence becomes clear, I curse him, curse, curse, curse him, because how dare he.
“Damn it!” I cry. “These words, they—they are not his—but mine! My words—stolen!”
“You sure? This here, it’s his handwriting.”
“It is,” I say, “but this, this is my story, which I recorded long ago, when I was twelve years old, maybe.”
“Then,” she says, “from now on, be careful. Like, think twice about what you say.”
Somehow, what she means is clear to me, and there is no need to ask for an explanation. I better be careful about the words uttered—or else, they will be spun.
She presses Stop on the tape recorder, and whispers in my ear—what, I am not going to tell you.
And I am not going to tell you the smell of her hair, either.
But then, a moment later I forget all about being on guard. I find myself angry, so angry at my father—but even more than that, surprised. I have told him a thousand times already: my thoughts are mine, and mine alone! How dare he pretend to agree with what I say—and later, ignore it, and invade my privacy, exposing, in the process, some of my most painful, most intimate moments? This is a line he has never crossed before.
Anita gives me a look, which I take to be a warning. Then she places the shroud back in place, over the tape recorder.
“The way I picture it is like, this is his desk. He’s always here,” she says, “even when he isn’t. So just, don’t say nothing you don’t want him to hear. You must be careful, Ben. The words you leave behind you, they ain’t yours no more.”
And with that, she turns away.
I shut the glass door behind her. I murmur, “Good night,” knowing that no one can hear me inside. If she blows me a kiss, I cannot detect it—and so, neither can you. I do not even wish to look at her, because I aim not to see, and not to tell you even a hint of what I see. As I told you
before, go! Go away! Or else, if this is where you must stay, just Stop! Stop listening. My thoughts are mine!
The rage swells in my chest. I want to burst into his bedroom, even before she gets there, and—slap!—punch the unsuspecting, heavy-eyed old man in the face. Instead, I just crumple the papers, and throw them to the floor and stamp, stamp, stamp my feet on them.
Which is when the glass door reopens, just a crack, and she says, “Ben—”
“What? What now?”
“If I was you, I would burn that tape.”
“I cannot,” I say, utterly frustrated. “It has my voice on it.”
And she comes back with, “Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless,” she says,”like, you want him to know what you really think. Yes, I bet that’s it! You want to draw blood.”
And with that, she slides the glass shut, so instead of her face, all I see is a reflection of mine.
I look down at the mess I have made, thinking that perhaps, this is all a mistake. I may be wrong about him. Indeed, I am. He is no worse than me. He may have found himself curious, and the hell with privacy! He is my father, after all...
He used to be my hero. How could I forget: when grandma collapsed, it was dad who saved her. He breathed life into her; and it lasted in her for two whole weeks. Now, I suppose, he wants to save me. From what, I have no idea. Recently I noted the look in his eyes; they are so full of pity, as I have rarely seen in them before. He seems worried, unusually worried about me. At this point I no longer resent it—but still, it makes me uneasy.
At first I figured, maybe he is worried about my future: I mean, about my drifting aimlessly, and dropping out of medical school, and failing to get a job, and being unable to support myself—but no: never once since my return has he even come close to touching any of these subjects. I must admit: he is rather careful with me. If I am silent—so is he.
And yet, even when we do talk, there is a distance between us: a separation, which he seems to respect. A wall, a space, a wall.
And so, I am left to wonder. Why is he worried? What can it be? Perhaps, because of mom? According to him, she was diagnosed with Early Onset Familial Alzheimer Disease. At first I thought, it could be worse, and thank goodness it isn’t a brain tumor—only to realize that during my studies in medical school, I heard of some people with brain tumor who got better—but never once did I hear of anyone who got better from Alzheimer’s.
Now for the first time I consider the full meaning of that word: no, not Alzheimer's, but the one immediately before it, which up to now I have ignored, perhaps deliberately so: Familial. Which means, Hereditary. It is a tough verdict for mom, and the threat of one for me, as well—but far as I know, the only way for me to be sure of not receiving it is to die young.
Stop, I tell myself. Stop thinking now.
I remember: when I was six, we strolled together one morning along the beach. The tide was low, and dad picked up a shell, an empty, twisted shell of a sea snail, that had washed up on shore.
He handed it to me, saying, “Here, Ben. Keep it. It is a gift.”
My father taught me then how to hold it to my ear and listen, listen with all my being; because, he said, the sound of the waves had been caught, somehow, inside it, which is a secret only few people know, because it only becomes clear if you stay there, very still, and forget everything else for a while. The sound, dad promised, would always remain—even if you took the shell far, far away from here, say, to the city, or to Santa Monica Mountains, out there. Even so, you would still hear it.
I remember doubting him. I thought, Oh well. High tide, low tide. Nothing stays. Nothing is forever.
I admit, in the past few days I have judged him harshly. Now I know, I can tell where I might have gone wrong. When the old man says, “The day is shorter, it seems. And the shorter it is—the more precious each minute,” it is not his life he is thinking about. Perhaps, it is mine.
My father is doing his best to hold things together. Memory is a fragile thing. So he is trying to capture the moment, perhaps for my sake. At least, the sound of it. One day, if—if like my mother, I shall start losing it, my memory, I mean—I want to believe that dad will be there, as close to me as once he was, holding it to my ear.
Time in a fold of brain. The ocean in a shell.
I pick the papers from the floor, which is where they have been trampled on, and I flatten them under the golden lamplight, which warms the tips of my fingers. This is my story, I tell myself. This is me, fifteen years ago. Here is my voice. Here is his gift to me.
And so, I begin reading.
There it is, that sound again. And again—just like last night—it is only a whisper...
Only An Empty Dress
Chapter 13
As Told by Ben, Fifteen Years Back
There it is, that sound again. And again—just like last night—it is only a whisper. No, not now, mom... Just a little bit longer. If I open my eyes, if I open them now, for sure I will fall—
Lighter and faster than anything here I come, traveling through the air, hovering as if there is no gravity. The toy-sized houses below me are floating away; so are the trees. Here and there they catch a ray of light, then dim away. After a while they fall back into the stream of things.
From time to time I can see my shadow: there, there it is, fluttering dreamily over the land, like a fish wiggling across a vast, sandy bottom. The shadow is spreading as I leap over the valleys, shrinking as I drift down toward the hilltops. From here I can almost see, see over the summit, even over the highest, sharpest rocks. They reach up to me, lick my toes and then, in a flash I kick, I rise over them until—
I sit up in my bed with a start. The blanket has fallen off and there is my foot, bandaged. Some boys are clumsy. Some boys fall from trees, they get all bruised up and never learn a lesson, is what grandma says. Everyone knows who she is talking about.
She is right, too. I hate learning lessons. I hope I never will.
I try to pull back the blanket and suddenly, here is that sound again—only clearer this time. How can I describe it? It is faint, like a moan, going up, down and then up again. Just listening to it sets my nerves on edge. Can you make any sense of it?
I remember asking mom about it. I said, “You feeling all right?” And she said, “Yes dear, why?” And I said, “I heard you at night.” And she paused for just a second, but then went on, combing her hair. And I said, “So? What happened, mom? Were you hurt?”
And she waved her hand, the way she does to dismiss what I say, because to her it seems to make no sense. Then she smiled at me from the mirror.
But I pressed on saying, “Well?” And immediately noticed a change in her: the forehead was stitched with worry, and a little pleat was forming there, between her eyebrows, which meant she was doing the grown-up thing, trying to think of something to say in order not to say a thing, after which she said, “Oh that! I guess I was having a nightmare. Sometimes,” she added, “I talk in my sleep.”
And I came close, right behind her, and gave her a hug, and said, “So, if it happens again—then what?” To which she shrugged. I looked up at her, at her reflection really, because that was where I could find her eyes, and I said, “Should I come in, then? Should I wake you up?”
“Oh no,” she answered, blushing a little. “Dad can do that.”
So now, shivering a bit, I find myself cuddling the pillow, swaying back and forth, hypnotized by that moan and becoming angry, very angry with dad. How can he go on sleeping? It should not be that difficult to touch her, to have her snap out of that Oh, Oh, Oh mumble—I mean, really! If he did what he is supposed to do, I would not have to pop open my eyes, smack in the middle of my dream, right at the moment when I am at the top of the world, and wonder how to take care of things.
There is nothing I wouldn’t do for mom, I mean it! Waking her from a nightmare is the least I can do. I will wake her—and no one else but her. So I slip off my bed. T
he floor is bare. It has a cold, stony touch. What you call darkness is really not all that dark. Faint moonlight seeps through the blinds, puddles over the sheets, spills all over the folds, and then crawls, with some hesitation perhaps, across the room.
I find the door handle and lean into it. I know exactly how much pressure to apply, especially around the rusty spot, so that—without a screech—it swings open.
Once outside my bedroom I make an effort to avoid limping, for fear of making a sound. So I slide across the hall, past the empty aquarium, which grandma bought me after my injury.
Coming dimly into view, as I enter the corridor, are the closed doors ahead of me.
I remind myself to sidestep the two squeaky floor tiles: one lies in wait right there, next to the toilet, the other—next to grandma’s room. I don’t want to wake her. She always has some boring old lesson to teach me.
So I move slowly, carefully, around those floor tiles, halting to listen after each step, one foot on tiptoe, the other—dragging along. You think this is easy for a boy, a tense, jumpy twelve-years old boy? It’s not—but I cannot go back.
At last I am closing in on my target: the door at the end of the corridor. The handle is within my reach when, once again—
Oh, says my mom from within. Her voice rings so sweet, so melodious—each Oh coming to a higher peak than the last one—that all of a sudden, I am in awe. I step back, trying to make up my mind: is this a nightmare she is having—or perhaps something different? Should I rush in to save her—or perhaps not?
And as I stand there, utterly in confusion, I hear, as clear as can be, a little, distinct note, a squeak really: the squeak of a floor tile being stepped on, coming from the shadowy corridor, directly behind me.
I glance over my shoulder: outlined against her door, which is now flung wide open, there she stands: a small, hunched figure, raising a wrinkled finger at me. Grandma is short, but formidable: she is the real power in our family. No one is allowed to forget the fact that every month, the rent is paid for with her savings.
The White Piano (Still Life with Memories Book 2) Page 11