All would have been well, had it not been for the dream. I was in a hotel somewhere by the sea. An old world building, wooden panels halfway up the walls, flowery wallpaper above. Genteel. I was checking in at the reception desk, when I saw my parents there. My father was fussing with the locks on the luggage, my mother discreetly eyeing herself in a mirror, patting at her cheek with a very clean handkerchief. When they saw me, they tried to look the other way, in confusion. Finally, they reluctantly said, “Hello.” I wanted to rush to them, throw my arms around my mother’s neck, hug my Dad after so many years. But they were acting so cold to me; I held back, in resonance.
“I thought you were dead,” was all I could find to say to them. My father looked at the floor, very seriously. My mother looked away, on the edge of tears, waiting for my father to do what he had to do. He was bundled, as always, against the cold in the purple scarf and hat she had knitted for him. She had a runny nose, which she frequently dabbed with her handkerchief. Not the one I had given her, with the pink flowers. Another one. He told me they had faked their death.
“Why, why?” I asked. I looked back and forth between them. I tried smiling, hoping it was a joke.
My mother turned her body toward me, stepped closer to my father, and pushed her head slightly in my direction. “We were ashamed of you.”
I woke up in a panic. It was still before dawn. My heart beat violently. I felt like throwing up. It’s only a dream, I tried to tell myself; it’s not real. I lay down again in my sleeping bag. Sleep would not return. My parents died years ago. They loved me, in their own way.
I felt as though a piece of decayed meat were stuck in one of my many digestive tubes. I pressed down on my belly with my hand. It was like a rock. My spine was aching, my body sweating, but very cold. The pillow was cold; the wall behind my head was cold; the sleeping bag was cold. I tried to keep totally still in the darkness, seeking desperately for the gentle oblivion of sleep. Somewhere, I knew there was a door, somewhere within the confusing corridors of my memory and mania, a door that would lead me back to soft sheets, to the caress of forgiveness, the grace of a fresh start. But there was no returning for me. It was cold. I was alone.
“Think of something nice, dear. Think of all your blessings.” My mother would console me as a child. Just her caring could send me back to sleep after a bad dream.
“Mummy,” I whispered into the darkness, into the silence. I closed my eyes, my mind racing to try to remember how to get home, how to feel safe again. I tried relaxing my body, little by little. The big toe of the left foot, the underneath of the left foot. Some bright and confident woman with flashing earrings, perfume smelling like polyurethane varnish, had assured me this would work, on the radio years before. But here in my cold attic, before I could even reach the knee, an image would flash, a thought of money, or Dominic, or Sarah, and my belly would clench again.
I could feel in my chest the longing to scream, the desperation for release, like trying to break free from under a heavy blanket.
I sat up in the bed. Turned my head as far as I could to the left, to look at the wall behind me, stretching my spine. Then the other way. Better. Do not get pulled in. Swim. Fight. Be strong. It was getting lighter in the room. I could see the grapes, washed and in Paul’s cracked bowl on my makeshift table. This was the morning of day eight. Three whole days more. I could breathe again. Three days, new lessons, new insights. Joey seemed pleased enough with my progress. “Just trust him,” Sam had said. I breathed.
The night before had been easy. The grapes were on sale, left over from Christmas feasting. I got five pounds for a few dollars. I joked with the cashier, flirted even. Paul was home, bless him. Engrossed in his slow zooms of nuclear reactors. I gave him a vase I had made with Cheryl. He asked me no questions, for once. Perhaps he sensed he was sparing me the need to lie. I left the keys on the dresser. Paul had bought me a small picture for my attic room, an Ansel Adams print. As I climbed the stairs, I had a spring in my step. I folded all my clothes neatly onto the makeshift shelves, preparing for my appointment with grace.
The clothes were still folded now, behind the grapes. The light was enough to see everything as gray in the room. It was no use. Don’t meditate, he said, and don’t write. What the fuck do you expect me to do then?
It was no use.
I’d never had a chance anyway. My father was a weak man, my mother withdrawn. They had loved me, their only son, and then they died. My whole life I had been desperately swimming in turbulent waters, using all my energy to avoid drowning. Never a fighting chance.
I stared at the wall ahead of me. Be careful not to meditate. Fight for some mood of optimism. But it was all in vain.
When I was a child, we found a small bird one day, my mother and I. It had probably been attacked by a cat or a raccoon, she said, but abandoned before the killing was fully done. I was only six at the time. I begged to take it in. One wing was broken, useless, one leg was gone. I fed the bird milk by the fireplace from a medicine dropper. It could not move. I made it a bed in a shoe box, out of cotton wool. It had tiny insects crawling in and out of the feathers. It was starting to smell strange.
By the time my father came home, we had developed an understanding, that bird and me. I was its lifeline, its only hope. I would not give up, I would be there no matter what. I talked to it, whispered affirmations and Bible quotes. My parents huddled in the kitchen, obviously in some kind of a dispute. I could hear their terse whispers as I sang to my bird. Finally my father called my name, “Matthew.” I knew when he called me “Matthew” it was serious. His somber voice carried tidings of disappointment or death. He chose his words carefully, treading with caution on my love affair.
“Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like, Matthew,” he began cautiously. Not the bird. “You’ve done a kind thing here, my boy. You have shown caring to a hurt creature.” Not the bird, please not the bird. “But sometimes we have to end suffering to be kind, Matt. We have to be cruel to be kind.” Not the bird, anything but my bird, Dad. “Matt, when a creature is weak and has no defenses, it cannot survive.” I did not watch as he did something brutal to my bird in the garage, or as my mother gave him a small plastic bag to put the body in the garbage. Later that evening, he told me about Darwin and evolution, by the fire, in my pajamas.
When a creature is small and has no more defenses, it cannot survive. And what defenses do I have left now, Father? All gone. You are dead now. I have never made any real contribution. Even the radio show, just riding on others’ greatness and gifts. A parasite hiding in the wings of people with nobility and mission. I have never even made enough to support the family. We got by with Mafia-funded hand-me-downs.
I got lost in mental arithmetic. If I could persuade Becca and the kids to come home, how much would I need to make to rent a small apartment? Could the kids share a room? Would they? They never have had to before. Food. Four hundred. Three-fifty, if we relax the organic thing. Eat simply. I could work anywhere. Drive a bus. What do they pay? Does it give dental? Remember American Beauty … Kevin Spacey got a job at a burger place. I could do that. Live simply. We can. The kids’ activities. Soccer. Could I still afford the soccer? How would Dom take it if I couldn’t? My mind was spinning. My world was collapsing again.
Thoughts. These are all thoughts. These are not real. Just remember that. It was full daylight now. Sunshine through the window. I was sitting in an attic room thinking thoughts. Crazy thoughts. My mind, that’s all. It’s not reality.
I stood up. I’m 34 years old. I have a degree. I stretched from one side to the other, felt the aching in the muscles. I made a mistake, that’s all. A simple mistake. Born more of benevolence than malice. A deep breath into the belly.
There are clean clothes on the shelf. Another breath into the belly. I changed into fresh jeans, T-shirt, sweater. I brushed my hair. Straightened out the bag on the mattress, sat down, and ate some grapes. All thoughts. I smiled. Amazing that I can get caught like th
at. I remembered being sick when I was a child. My mother gave me grapes. We’d watch Mr. Rogers on TV. Things will be all right. There’s a meeting tonight. Still two more lessons to go. I’ll see Cheryl and Sam and Maryanne. They’ll help me. Maybe one of them can even give me a job. I never asked. There’s hope. Now I’m back in the yurt again at that meeting. I never shared. Only gave feedback. I need a job, so I can get my family back. I should have shared. They would have given suggestions. I missed the boat. That chance will never come again. All ruined now. Thoughts. Don’t give in. These are thoughts. Just remember. Thoughts, not reality. Feel this moment now.
The day passed. Sitting, lying, stretching, waiting. Thinking, getting lost, coming back. I ate grapes now and then, trying to remember that they had to last. Lonely meandering visits into hell, hating myself as much as my life. Desperate plans for restitution. And every now and then stepping back from the madness, all thought, only my mind. A moment of peace. A moment of just the room.
I tried to remember all Joey’s lessons. There were so many. I felt lost. I remembered “Just like me.” I tried to think of people I hated. Pushar, dominating, stupid, greedy, just like me. My father-in-law, angry, frustrating, untrusting, just like me. I tried closing my eyes and throwing a ball of socks into the air, to see if I could catch it with my eyes closed. Time passed. I kept trying to remember.
It must have been mid-afternoon when I started to get excited about going out. Like a child before a treat. I ate grapes greedily, planning the questions I would ask Joey. Surely he would call me in afterward. I thought up elaborate questions about destiny and free will, about collective consciousness. Some became burningly urgent. Write them down. Where’s a pen, where’s paper? No. Not allowed. So if we are really just this consciousness, then who is making all this happen? What about God, is that the way that the unmanifest, undifferentiated source of creation becomes manifest when it—
A knock on the door. It was dark outside already. I was sitting thinking, lost in my questions. It was Paul. He handed me a note, in his spidery handwriting, and stared at the ground. “I am your driver tonight. I will take you to the meeting.”
Paul was taking his role very seriously. He pursed his lips and gestured to my jacket. I wanted to kiss him, tell him what a wonderful man, a wonderful friend he was. I squeezed his arm. He looked apologetically into my eyes for just a split second, and then took a step, very soberly, toward the staircase, like a policeman in Stalinist Russia obliged to arrest his brother. He descended ahead of me, his great weight swaying from one leg to another. I could hear his heavy breathing, as I followed him down. To me, he was my emancipator.
“But Paul, you’ve got to tell me, I mean how did this happen? How do you know where to go, what time? Just tell me that.” We weaved our way through the evening traffic. His great frame was packed into the Honda’s modest accommodations as though he were sitting in an infant car seat. He made a noise on the exhale each time he changed gears. Finally, when we stopped at the light on Channon and Broad, with more grunts he rescued a paper and pen from his pocket, and scribbled a few words. Eyes still averted, he handed it to me. “He called me on the phone today.” The light changed, another grunt and we were on our way.
“But Paul, you’ve got to tell me, I mean you were so down on him. Told me not to go see him.” Paul looked pained at my disobedience of the rules. “Just tell me Paul, I mean what happened?” I was laughing, we were almost at Alan’s now. Who cared about rules? I was with my old friend, driving to my new friends. I felt good. “Just tell me that Pauly, and I’ll shut up, I promise.”
Paul parked the car. Another growl. He slowly maneuvered himself, with great effort, out of the seat and onto the street. Still avoiding my eyes, he stopped at the entrance to Joey’s alley. Looked around for street numbers. Under the streetlamp he struggled again for pencil and paper. More laborious huffing and puffing as he wrote another note. He passed it to me as one might give a cigarette to an addict, and waddled off down the alley. I read it before following him: “He knows Coppola.”
I followed Paul up the faded staircase. Alan was doing his best to embrace Paul at the top landing, his arms barely reaching around Paul’s body, like one of those postcards of someone trying to hug an old growth redwood tree, just to show you how big it is. Paul was all smiles and pleasantries, now that his mission was complete. I waited my turn for Alan’s embrace, but as soon as Paul had been separated from his shoes and ushered into the room, Alan’s manner changed completely. He looked at me without a flicker of recognition, turned abruptly, and was gone. I felt a sudden searing sensation in my chest. I looked around desperately for a friendly face but found none. Things didn’t get any easier as I stepped into the room. I felt like a picket breaker at a union meeting, or a snitch in jail. Those who didn’t have their eyes closed when I walked in closed them immediately as soon as I tried to make eye contact. I took a seat and closed my own eyes, hoping my calm demeanor would hide the chaos in my heart.
After some minutes Joey came into the room, and everyone and everything became silent, except for the questions in my mind. What evil had I done? I could not keep my eyes closed for very long; involuntarily they opened every minute or so, to check on what was happening in the room. I shifted my position from cross-legged to kneeling to straight out in front. Joey began speaking. Sam was sitting against the other wall, wearing a soft pink woolen sweater. Any hopes that I still had an ally there were soon dashed. She refused to meet my eyes.
As the meeting drew to a close, all became clear to me. They were jealous. Joey had probably given me more attention in the last few days than any of them had in years. Perhaps ever. It was so obvious now. They had talked among themselves, since we got back from the farm. I was the new upstart, stealing the show. Perhaps his chosen heir. What do they call that? Lineage holder. People are so petty, so transparent. Couldn’t they understand that this is about love and freedom, not just satisfying their petty desires to be in the teacher’s good graces? Once the meeting was over, Joey would usher me into the back room, and give me some deeper dimensions of the teaching. They would have to go home with his mere public appearance.
Finally Joey stood up. He grinned at Paul, and slowly left the room. His eyes never met mine. That was all the confirmation I needed. He didn’t want to make their jealousy any worse than it was. I sat quite calmly and waited for the cue that I knew would come. Any moment now Alan would reluctantly call me in.
Sure enough, he left the room; and sure enough he poked his head back in a couple minutes later. I was ready, just getting to my feet. “Paul,” he said, in his amiable British voice, raising his eyebrows and his chin just a little. “He’d love a word, if you have the time.” Paul struggled to his feet, looking surprised. He started across the room; I stood up to follow him. So it was to be the two of us. I was looking forward to this.
“Not you, Matt. He just asked for Paul.” Hot tears welled behind my eyes. He’s interfering. Alan’s jealousy is actually interfering and distorting. I know how easy Joey is to manipulate, he’ll say yes to anything. So I followed Paul anyway. “Matt,” said Alan sternly. “Did you hear me, mate?” His voice was crisp now. “Just. Paul.”
I glared at him. My lips quivered. I swallowed hard. Alan partially blocked my way. Paul turned for a moment and hesitated. He leaned forward slightly toward me, as though there was something he really wanted to say but was afraid to be overheard. He wore his discomfort like a straightjacket for all to see. But Alan just tightened his grip on the situation. Feigning a pleasant exterior, he smiled at Paul.
“C’mon then, lad, let’s not keep him waiting.” Alan glared at me again. Paul was gone, back into Joey’s room, and I was left with my opponent. He raised his eyebrows slightly, closed his eyes for a moment, and breathed out through his nose. He started picking up cushions from the floor and stacking them. The room was empty, except for the two of us.
My mouth trembled with emotion. I stared at the carpet as Alan cleaned t
he room. Without looking up at him, I made a last appeal. “Alan, I really need to see Joey.” I waited. My heart pounded. I wanted to cry or vomit. Alan was still busy. I noticed that the flowers in the corner of the room were not evenly distributed in the vase, and went over to straighten them, on my hands and knees. I would win my favors through servitude, if that was what was needed. I lifted out some of the flowers, long slender orchids. The stem of the longest caught the tip of the vase. The vase fell and broke. Water everywhere. Alan stopped, turned and looked at me, on my hands and knees, water and flowers and pieces of vase all around me. “I need to see Joey,” was all I could find by way of explanation, as though my ineptitude at flower arranging was the proof he had been waiting for.
Alan said nothing. He went to Joey’s door, I followed. He knocked. I could hear Paul laughing inside the room. “Sorry, guv,” said Alan, poking his head through the opening, “but Matt is hoping for a word.”
“Eh?” I heard Joey’s voice from inside. “He’s still here? Tell him to go home, tell him to do what I told him.” Alan turned to me, widened his eyes, raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips.
I turned away, knowing only hatred. I could have waited. I thought about it. But my whole body was electric; I could not keep still for a moment. As I ventured into the alley, the door closed hard behind me. Call it a slam. I didn’t care. It was a cool night but dry. I began to walk fast, breathing deeply. As I turned the corner of West Broad Street I passed a Coke can someone had thrown there. I crushed it with my foot. “Hate. Fuck. Hate,” I chanted as I splashed through the gutters. I saw only dirt and rotten things. A dead cat next to a garbage bin. “Leave me alone,” repeated itself, like a hammer on stone, for blocks. “I hate you.” Three youths were sauntering toward me on Clarindon Street. Black jackets, chains, menacingly short hair. One spoke, out of my earshot. The others laughed. A rush through my body. Fear and hate. I’m ready to die, bring it on. I walked directly toward them, staring ahead. They parted to let me through.
The Last Laugh Page 21