A Child across the Sky

by Jonathan Carroll

  "Did he say why he was taking her to New Jersey?"

  "No, only that she'd asked."

  "She asked? That's interesting. Nothing else?"

  "Only the name of the place. Browns Mills."

  The New Jersey Turnpike is pretty once you get by New Brunswick. There's still a lot of traffic, but it feels like that's where the country begins; if you were to get off at any exit you'd soon see cows or small towns where people were friendly and owned trucks.

  I hadn't had anything to eat, so I decided to pull off at the next stop and get a hamburger. What more American a tradition is there than the turnpike rest stop? I don't mean those Mom and Pop pretty-good-food one-shot places somewhere off the interstate that sell homemade pralines. I'm talking about a quarter-mile lean on the steering wheel that curves you into a parking lot the size of a parade ground, fourteen gas tanks, toilets galore, and Muzak. The food can be pretty good or pretty bad, but it's the high-torque ambience of the places that make them so interesting, the fact that no one is really there – only appetites or bladders, while eyes stare glazed or longingly out the window at the traffic. These places differ from train stations or airports because you go to such terminals to leave. A turnpike stop is a break in the flow, the concrete island where you can supposedly rest, tank up, get your bearings, and take a few deep breaths before rushing back out into the pack.

  They are particularly American because, although the same kind of stops exist on European highways, there people tend to linger. Real meals are served and enjoyed, white tablecloths and flowers are often on the tables, and people eat slowly and talk. When I was in Europe it struck me the driving, and anything associated with it, was regarded as a good part of a vacation or trip, not just the means to get somewhere.

  But I liked the feeling of eating in no-man's-land where you didn't really know where you were except, as the signs said, sixty miles from here or a hundred from there. I liked knowing I was sharing the same experience as every person in the place that day. Where do we have that kind of community? At a movie. At a rest stop. In church.

  I parked the car and climbed out slowly. What postures we get into when we're driving! No, that's an excuse. When you're young there's never that cranky, stubborn slowness in the muscles. If you're fulfilled or at least busy, there's no reason to think about growing older – that is, until little things like that tap you on the shoulder to remind you. I had my eyes closed and my arms stretched overhead when I heard, "I could tickle you, but I won't."

  That stopped that stretch. She was wearing powder blue: a powder-blue sweat suit that said RIDER COLLEGE in about five different places, powder-blue sneakers.

  "Hello there. I haven't seen you in a while."

  "You didn't need to. Everything you've done so far is perfect. Choosing that man to play Bloodstone and the actors from your group was a great idea."

  I leaned against the car and crossed my arms. The sun was behind me so she not only had to look up, she also had to squint to see me. "How come you're here? Are you keeping an eye on me?"

  "No. Yes, sort of. I came to tell you not to go to Browns Mills."

  "Why?"

  "Because there's nothing there."

  "Then why can't I go?"

  "You can, but . . . all I'm saying is don't waste your time. What you want isn't there. It's back in California."

  "What'll happen if I go?"

  "Listen, do you believe who I am?"

  I thought about that while the low whomping sound of turnpike traffic behind high hedges filled the air. A little pregnant girl in a blue sweat suit, hands in her pockets and eyes squinted to fight off the sun.

  "Driving out here I realized I don't trust Phil's tapes."

  "That's your choice."

  "I have no reason to trust you."

  "That's true. But then you have to be afraid of me. Either way, you have to finish this film."

  "Why?"

  "Because you want to save the lives of the people you still care about. That's the only thing you think is evil, Weber – the pain or death of the ones you love. The problem is, you know there are so few left. You've been leaving everything behind for a long time, friends included. Now you realize it's time to stop thinking about yourself and do something for them.

  "I can guarantee that if you don't finish the film, Sasha and Wyatt will –"

  "Don't threaten me!"

  How strange and evil it must have looked to anyone watching. A fortyish man stabbing his finger and yelling at a little fat girl in a blue sweat suit in a parking lot in Somewhere, New Jersey.

  "I'm not threatening, I'm telling you the truth. They'll die. I have no control over it." Her voice was a real plea.

  "What do you control?"

  "Nothing till you finish the film. Then you'll see."

  I wanted to say something more, but what? We watched each other a bit longer like two fighters in a Mexican standoff; then I got back into the car. "I'm going to Browns Mills. Do you want to come?"

  She shook her head.

  I nodded mine and, from out of nowhere, smiled. "This would've made a good scene in a film, wouldn't it?"

  "I'm not going there again. I asked him to take me out there so I could see it for myself. Browns Mills was where he grew up. That was the summer he saw the dead people and met his first girlfriend." She made a bitchy face. "Kitty Wheeler. Such a little asshole! He didn't need me anymore after that."

  "Not until he started making the Midnights."

  "Only the last one." She rubbed her belly and looked at it. "None of this would've happened if he'd listened to me! Go out there and look for yourself! It's just a dumb town!"

  She turned around and ran very fast away across the parking lot; like children when recess is over who are afraid if they don't run they'll be late for class.

  Getting out of the car in New York ten hours later, I felt like the Tin Man of Oz before Dorothy found the oil can. After I paid and was walking away, one of the men called and told me I forgot my postcards. I went back for them: – postcards of Browns Mills, New Jersey. I got nothing else from my trip there. Pinsleepe was right – if only Strayhorn and I had listened to her in the first place.

  three

  "It was my favorite hour –

  Midnight – that perfect hour when

  struggling day has been completely devoured,

  its tail disappearing down the throat of night"

  COLEMAN DOWELL, My Father Was a River

  1

  An out-of-work actor is approached by the devil.

  "If you come with me, I'll make you the greatest star that ever was. Handsomer than Clark Gable, sexier than Paul Newman –"

  "Yeah, yeah," the actor says. "But what do I have to do to get all that?"

  "Give me your soul. And the soul of your mother, your father, your wife, your children, your brothers and sisters, and your grandparents."

  "Okay,"says the actor, "but what's the catch?"

  Nice joke. Matthew Portland told it to me not long before a car fell on his head. Nice joke, but it doesn't work that way. They don't ask you if you want more, they ask if you want to put what you've already got to better use.

  Weber and the others can say what they want, but the first Midnight was a very good film. The others weren't, I admit it, but that first one did the job. I asked people for months what scared them before I put a word down on paper. You can't imagine how boring most people's fears are: I don't want to die, I don't want to get sick, I don't want to lose what I have.

  Midnight came out as well as it did because at the time I had one great idea, no idea of how to write a movie, but nothing to lose by trying. Some people create best when they're sure, others when they're not.

  Weber thinks the chain of events went like this: I was a walking basket case due in equal parts to failure and doing killer drugs with my girlfriend. Luckily I met Venasque the shaman and he saved me. Returned from the brink, I was able to clear my summa cum laude head and begin work on the project
that ultimately made me famous.

  Sounds like a testimony at Alcoholics Anonymous. Or the way we all wish life would work. "Let us all now bow our heads and pray God lets life make sense from here on out."

  That's one of the first things Venasque taught me. We were sitting out on the patio feeding Big Top, his bull terrier, sour-cream-and-chive potato chips.

  "He doesn't like barbecue ones. Or nacho. The pig eats anything, like me. But not Big. He's the chip connoisseur, aren't you?"

  The old white dog lifted its head and looked at Venasque, then lowered it again to the big spread of chips in front of him.

  "No, you got it all wrong, Phil. What's that word, 'teleology'? Screw teleology. People don't want things to make sense. Know why? Because if they did we'd all be in trouble. You drive too fast down the street because it feels good or you're in a hurry. If things made sense, a cop'd stop you and give you a ticket. But what happens when a cop does stop you? You get angry. That's not fair! Sure, it's fair. It also makes sense. If life made sense we'd all either behave ourselves a hell of a lot better or be walking around scared for all the bad things we do every day.

  "We want things to make sense only when it's to our advantage. Otherwise, it's interesting not knowing what's coming next. Maybe you'll get heads, maybe tails. People do wrong things and get away with them. The wrong people get their necks broken. Would you prefer it if only the good people got rewarded? How often are you good? How often do you deserve the good you get?" He put his hand deep into the crinkly green-and-yellow bag and brought out more chips. The pig was drowsing a few feet away. The dog was slowly and delicately eating his pile.

  "What you told me doesn't help."

  He was about to eat a chip but stopped it an inch from his mouth and said, "You didn't ask for help. You asked me to tell you some of your future."

  "What can I do?"

  "First, stop worrying about what's going to happen to you. There's a long time before it comes. In the meantime you're going to be famous. Isn't that what you've been wanting?"

  He didn't tell me about Pinsleepe or that I'd kill myself, although I'm sure he knew. Venasque knew everything but gave you only what he thought you needed.

  "Wouldn't you rather have an interesting life than a fair one?"

  "I don't know. Not if it's going to be as short as you said."

  "Bullshit, Phil! Don't make me angry. You're talking about time, I'm talking about quality. I heard a very funny line in a health food restaurant the other day. Two old guys were sitting near me drinking carrot soup. Is that disgusting? Carrot soup? Who on earth thought that nightmare up? Anyway, one says to the other, 'Steve, if you drink this soup for a hundred years you'll live a long time.' That made me laugh, but later I thought about it different. You probably would live longer if you drank carrot soup and took naps. Notice I said 'probably.'" He shoved a load of deadly potato chips into his mouth and smiled around their crunch. "But some people learn more from chips. You learn how good bad things taste, what guilt feels like. . . . Eat a few of these delicious sins and you really learn how disgusting carrot soup is. Perspective! You learn perspective. The only thing you learn drinking carrot soup is how to get used to it."

  "What are you telling me?"

  "I'm telling you to eat the chips and learn from them."

  "I should write this horror film?"

  "Definitely. It sounds interesting. You're enthusiastic. It'll teach you about evil. It'll teach you evil doesn't make sense either but is still interesting."

  He held the bag out and shook it for me to take some. We both smiled at the gesture.

  "What about good? Shouldn't I be learning what that is?"

  "Why? Good doesn't interest you. You're the one who likes reading about trips to Hell and looking at Bosch's pictures. How come no madonnas or Last Suppers?

  "What's important and interesting is not what evil is, Phil, it's what we do with it. Bosch took it and painted those incredible pictures. Stalin took it and wiped out a third of his population.

  "That reminds me – I saw something on TV the other night that fits this. They were showing old documentary films about life in Russia in the twenties and thirties. One scene was of all these hot air balloons at a celebration for something. You don't know what's going on, except for all these beautiful balloons lifting off the ground and pretty girls cheering. As they rise, you see they've got strings attached and are pulling something up with them. What is it? A giant poster of Stalin! How about that? Balloons, pretty girls, celebrations, Stalin! That monster. The same thing with good as with evil. It's not what it is –"

  I took some potato chips. "'It's what we do with it. 'How many more years will I live, Venasque?"

  "More than me. Don't ask that question. It doesn't do any good to know. If I said twenty years you'd say 'Phew.' If I said twenty minutes you'd shit. Either way of thinking doesn't get you any farther toward where you need to go. One's too relaxed and the other's desperate. Find out about evil and write your movie."

  "Is that what's going to make me famous?"

  "Yes."

  So you see, I already knew. I trusted Venasque so implicitly by then that if he had said I'd become famous as the coach of the Burmese Ping-Pong team I would have believed him.

  That was the most intensely enjoyable time of my life. I was full of energy, sure of what I was doing, and so enthusiastically critical of every word I wrote that I drove myself crazy, but loving it, loving it. Venasque gave me five thousand dollars and told me to write and give him back six when I became famous. I took it without hesitation, knowing I'd give him seven: knowing I would soon have seven. I wrote, read, walked with Venasque and the animals, and thought about what man does with good and evil.

  The only part of Midnight that is not wholly my own creation is the scene with Bloodstone, the child, and the magnifying glass. That was something Weber had said in passing many years before in a completely different context and which miraculously came to mind when I was writing the script. He never remembered or even realized it was his but, both ironically and innocently, always contended it was the most effective and appalling scene in the film. In any of my films. Great minds think alike, eh?

  It was so galling because everyone talked about that scene. When I asked Venasque about it he shrugged it off like nothing important, but it was damned important to me. Horror film though it was, I wanted Midnight to be mine, but here was this little brilliant bit of not-mine on the screen attracting everyone's attention. And even before it got to the screen, it was the flash that caught Matthew Portland's attention when I was just another putz in Hollywood with his first screenplay and a well-known friend trying to push him.

  Weber didn't mention, either, that when we were filming he came up on three separate occasions to help the director. I remember him pulling into that little mill town at three in the morning in his silver Corvette, looking fresh and alive yet vaguely funny with his curly red hair that never stayed brushed and green eyes that were so smart and serious you couldn't look away from them without feeling something like regret. Was he the model for Mr. Fiddlehead? No, Weber was too real to be anyone's dream friend. Weber was too real to . . .

  He never mentioned winning an Oscar, did he? He also won a MacArthur Award (the genius award, for those unfamiliar with it), a Golden Globe, New York Film Critics, and the Golden Palm at Cannes.

  Some people look good in clothes. Whatever they wear, they effortlessly give it a look and originality that is like a beautiful signature. The same is true with achievement. As long as I've known him, Weber Gregston has worn his accomplishments with style and modesty. When The New Yorker accepted one of his poems our junior year in college, he was genuinely shocked they'd taken it. At the Oscar ceremony, he took his statue from the famous star presenter and said, "The real reason I came up here was so I could meet Jack Nicholson."

  As he became more and more famous, the only thing that changed in him was a new, understandable guardedness in his manner that grew out
of the demands Lost Angles (as he called it) made on him. He enjoyed the goodies fame gave him, but like most decent people who make it big, he felt guilty and uncomfortable.

  When he wasn't working on a film, he was somewhere helping. A course in directing at Los Angeles Community College, ads for Amnesty International, work with the terminally ill at Veterans Hospital. Always free, always voluntarily. The only thing he asked was that there be no publicity.

  Once when they were both over at my house, Venasque looked at Weber and said, "You got too many different kinds of fruits on your tree. It's time to cut 'em all off and just grow the oranges."

  Later, when I asked the old man what he meant, he told me doing a lot well didn't always mean you were doing yourself a favor.

  "You guys were raised thinking you've got to know how to play a solo on every instrument in the band. But you ever see one of those one-man-band characters standing on the street? He's got cymbals between his knees and a harmonica wrapped around his head. . . . You know what I'm talking about Looks silly as hell, and the music stinks."

  "Weber's music is pretty good, Venasque."

  "Yeah? You want to trade places with him?"

  "I don't know. I never thought about it."

  "Think about it. I'm going to the toilet."

  The scene must be set here because of what happened next. The two of us were sitting outside. It was twilight. The air was full of the heavy perfume of flowers and the high dynamo sounds of insects. It was warm enough to have my shirt off. As I reached for a Coke I had under the seat, the question of whether I wanted to be Weber moved through my mind.

  In an instant, less, I answered out loud, "I don't want to be anybody else. I'm all right."

  Almost as soon as I said it, I felt something like sticks on my back. Lots of little sticks moving on me. Half straightening, half turning, I came face to face with a small black bird that was just standing on my shoulder. It was such a shock that I lurched and the bird flicked off and flew away. The direction I'd turned was facing the door, and when I calmed a bit, I realized Venasque had been standing there with his hands in his pockets.