“What’s wrong?” I asked. “It was a joke wasn’t it?”
“No.” He lay back beside me, his shoulder touching mine. “The mood just came and went.”
“Mood or moon?”
“Both.” He cupped his hand around mine and closed his eyes. “It’s just as well. This is fine just like this.”
“Well, I’m not going to stay here for the night if that was an invitation you just gave me.”
“Afraid to be seen coming out of the woods?”
“No,” I said. “Just afraid.” It was so quiet right then that I could hear little dog-panting sounds all around me in every direction. I waited, thinking he had passed out, but then I felt his thumb rubbing up and down the back of my hand.
“I know what you mean.” He turned his head to look at me then, our noses no more than a few inches apart. I apologized just in case I smelled like the garlic toast I had eaten for supper, but he just laughed and said he loved garlic. I thought he was going to try and kiss me again, and I was thinking I was ready for him, but instead he looked back up at the moon and started talking about how he had felt scared a lot of times. He talked about his father killing himself, which Quee had already mentioned a couple of times in passing, and he talked about the woman he went with in high school. He started to tell something but then stopped all of a sudden, like he suddenly remembered I was there. He said, “You know, just this very summer . . .”
“What?” I asked and leaned up so I could see his face but he just shook his head and closed his eyes. I had my nerve up by then, and so I leaned close and kissed him, just a little one, lips barely brushing. If he had given me the green light, there we would have gone, but he only responded with a squeeze of my hand. In no time at all, he was sound asleep, and I could have easily stayed right there where I was. I wanted to stay where I was, but for some reason I felt like I had to get back to Quee’s. For all of her big talk, I can’t imagine that she’d ever just go off and stay out all night.
I shook his shoulder to get him to at least see me to my car but he just rolled over and tried to pull me closer. By then there was this huge hairy dog in bed with us, the one who always sits in his truck, and it had licked one leg of my jeans until it was saturated with dog spit or foam, whatever it is they have in their mouths. It was just fifty feet from his door to my car but it felt like it took forever, like my feet were made of lead. The whole time I kept thinking I heard something like Hookarm or the Maco Man. I kept picturing the body of Jones Jameson and the way it had been described to me off and on all day long, it seemed. I got in and slammed and locked all the doors. I reached in the backseat quickly to make sure nothing was waiting there. Ever since I read how Charles Manson was hiding in a tiny little kitchen cabinet, I check everything. It drove Gerald crazy; I checked every closet and under the beds at night. I checked inside the dryer. I scared myself in the rearview mirror, and then I backed out so fast, I left smoke and now, as I say, here I am. I wish I smoked or drank or something right now. It’s one of those times. Instead I’m just sitting here talking my head off and wondering why I didn’t just lie back and shut up when he was in the mood and see what happened. Could it be as simple as not wanting to be rejected again? Or maybe me not wanting to be seen coming out of his makeshift trailer park the next morning? I just can’t figure it out, because now that it’s all behind me I wish so bad that I had kissed him back, taken off his clothes. All I know is that tomorrow has got to be better than today, and of course the amazing thing is that I didn’t sneeze or wheeze once. It could be that what I was allergic to was Gerald; I was allergic to boredom, and I’ll tell you something, there’s a lot you can say about this establishment but boring is not one of them. Right now I hear the hum of Quee’s sewing machine as she tries to get Fatass’s clothes so they’ll fit him come tomorrow when he goes on the outpatient plan, which means I don’t have to talk to him nearly as often. And now I guess even if I did make a pass earlier, I can consider us even. We’re like one of those cars that can go from zero to eighty in something like two seconds. Of course we can also go from eighty to zero in about two seconds. Our timing is way off. Now Quee’s machine has cut off, and I can angle myself and look down to see that all the lights are out below. I look out into that dark yard and I keep thinking of Songs to Stalk By and that scarecrow all dressed up like he’s going to play golf. Now you can call me strange, but that’s the kind of image—the scarecrow—that I find the scariest of all. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s because it’s the middle of the night and I’m too tired to sleep. I have searched my purse three times and there is not a Tylenol PM or Benadryl to be found. I’m sure Quee has something that would knock me out down below, but now I’m afraid to leave my room. Something just doesn’t feel quite right tonight. There is bad karma all over creation, in spite of the fact that I haven’t felt so hopeful of a possible love affair in my whole life.
When Mack’s phone rings the next morning, it seems like it’s ringing for the second time. Then he realizes all in one sweep of a moment that he slept through his alarm, that he’s running an hour late, that the sitter will be at the door ready to begin her day with Sarah any minute now. He looks at Sarah as he always does to see if there has been any change at all in her body; he writes down the amount of urine in the plastic bag by their bed—400 cc. Then June’s voice is on the machine. He reaches to pick up and then stops.
“Mack? I waited until I knew you weren’t there to call. You have so much going on.” Her voice drops and he thinks for a minute that she might really talk, that she might now be able to tell him what is going on with her. But of course she can’t do that, she wouldn’t do it with Sarah right here. “I just wanted to see if I can help you out today. You know, like can I bring dinner tonight? Call me.”
The sitter was ringing the bell, but he had to sit for a minute and replay the message in his thoughts. The way she said tonight did mean something. It meant we got interrupted last night and so let’s try it again, take it from the top. He pulls his robe around him and goes to the front door. The sunlight is blinding, and he steps back as the sitter pushes herself through the door. She glances at him and then at her watch. “Am I early?” she asks, and he shakes his head, tells her he’s late. He’s going to put on a pot of coffee and take a quick shower.
He can hear the sitter going through the house and raising every shade, pulling the drapery cords in the living room so that with one big swish daylight invades his home. He feels like shit, mouth dry and thick, head pounding; he stands for as long as he can just breathing steam and wondering why June didn’t call him at work. Didn’t she know that he wouldn’t even get the message until five? Were their lives so predictable? Yes, absolutely. Her life is as predictable as his.
When he steps back in the bedroom, the sitter leaves, so he can get dressed, and already there is evidence that her day has begun. There is the smell of baby powder hanging in the air like a cloud, Sarah’s legs and back made silky white. She has changed the pillowcase and the bag to the catheter. He dresses quickly, the smell of his aftershave temporarily masking the odor of this room, this house that has become his life. Bottle it and sell it to those who have no idea what sickness can do to the air, and when those people are moaning and groaning about this or that bullshit something at work, or what so and so said about so and so, have them inhale deeply, taking the filthy smell of illness into their lungs.
“Have a good day, dear,” the sitter whispers. She has asked him to call her Barbara instead of Mrs. Wilcox, but he hasn’t been able to find the heart or energy to give her a name. Then it all is too personal, too close to reality. This way she’s like the IV drip, the oxygen they have used in the past, the catheter. She’s just part of the equipment, part of the treatment.
“Thanks.” In the kitchen he gets a cup of coffee and dials June’s number. Even though she’s probably in her classroom by now, twenty-odd kids waving their arms for one second of her attention, he pictures her there by the phone, screening
his words, listening.
“Dinner sounds great. Tonight. I will see you tonight.” He hesitates after putting the phone back down. What is he hoping for after all?
On the refrigerator there is a picture of his in-laws with Sarah hugged between them. It is a small picture taken at her high school graduation, a time when she doesn’t even know he exists.
This is Gwendolyn,” Quee says, once again giving her “ghost wall” tour. She points to a black-and-white photo of a young woman with long wavy hair, perched on a cutout crescent moon. The legs of her swimsuit fit down on her thighs like short shorts, and her head is tossed back to reveal an ample bosom and slightly rounded tummy. Above her head a sign says: Carolina Moon. “She’s on a vacation at the beach and she has spent the whole day just stretched out on the beach frying her skin with a bunch of girlfriends who have done the same. Her stepfather works as one of the assistant managers at the Ocean Forest, and as a result, Gwendolyn has been allowed to have several girls spend the night. Her stepfather is a son of a bitch; he likes to cup his hands under those warm fannies when the girls greet him and pass through his door. He points to his cheek for someone to kiss him and then turns his face and gets them on the mouth, slips his tongue between their lips if he can. But now, Gwendolyn is happy because just beyond this photo is a young man who has caught her eye. He’s winking at her, and it makes her toss her head back and cross her ankles tightly. There’s a rush of excitement. There’s the promise that this may very well be her ticket out of her present life and into another. That’s Gwendolyn.”
Quee steps back and moves on down the hall, Denny and Alicia right on her heels. “And?” Denny asks. “So did she go away with him? Do we know his name?”
“See? I told you.” Alicia reaches out and pats Denny’s arm. “Doesn’t she tell a story? I swear I find myself believing all of these stories she makes up.”
“She did go away with him,” Quee says. “But this is the sad part of the story. She didn’t go away with him until years later. She went away with him after she was married and after he was married.”
“Where?” Denny asks, and she realizes that she has lowered her voice the way you would do if you were interrupting a ghost story. “Where did they go?”
Quee shrugs. “I’m not sure. I would suspect a city. Yes, a big city, maybe New York or Boston, someplace so big they could walk around arm in arm without anybody taking notice. They could stop underneath a bridge and kiss and nobody would care. The man bought Gwendolyn something real nice, a gift, a silver pillbox, and he told her that later, when they were apart, she should open the box and read the little note. They did bump into someone she knew, though. She said, Small world! She offered no explanation. It was her best friend in the world, so there was no need. Besides, her friend was there, locked in that apartment, with a child about Taylor’s age.” She paused and looked at Alicia, who rolled her eyes and gave a knowing nod. “The friend was desperate for company. I mean it was one of those old apartments that only had windows that opened out onto ventilation shafts. The child would spend hours standing on a little chair and staring down into that dirty alley.”
“How tragic.” Alicia shakes her head. “Do you think sometime you could tell a funny story?”
“Like about these folks?” Quee points to a little dwarf couple dressed up like Napoleon and Josephine. They are both plump and laughing with their mouths wide open. “I call them Mickey Rooney’s cousins. If you look closely, he has got his hand up her skirt.”
“He does! He really does!” Now Ruthie Crow has joined the tour, a Bic pen sticking out of her mouth like a cigarette. “What a hoot!”
“What was on the note?” Denny asks.
“What note?”
“In the pillbox.”
“Oh.” Quee points to a photo way up high, a woman standing at the far edge of the photo, her hand up and shielding the sun from her eyes. Behind her is the ocean. “It was something he had copied from a book.”
“A poem?” Ruthie asks. “If it’s a poem, I bet I will have heard of it.”
“She was more beautiful than thy first love, this lady by the trees,” Quee says, to which Ruthie shrugs and smirks.
“Nope, doesn’t ring any bells.”
“What an odd thing to put,” Alicia says. “Does that mean that he thought Gwendolyn was prettier than his wife?”
“Who knows?” Quee laughs. “I’m making it up as I go, right?” She turns to Ruthie and whispers, “Have you ever heard of a man named Yeats?”
“Did he have asthma?” Denny asks. “If he did, I’m sure I’ve heard everything he ever did.”
“I think I’ve heard the name,” Ruthie says, still studying the dwarf couple. “Yeah, I’m sure I have. He’s from somewhere near Taborville, right?”
“The line is from something called ‘A Dream of Death,’ now don’t ask me why I thought of it.” Quee points to the woman up top, her head wrapped in a scarf the ends of which are blowing out behind her. “I bought this photo because as you all know I’m rather partial to scarves myself. Besides, when I first glimpsed her, I thought somehow she might be the older Gwendolyn.”
Now Ruthie is coming down the hall with the photo of the masquerading dwarfs clutched to her chest. “May I take this back to my room?” she asks. “I am really feeling inspired.”
“By all means,” Quee says. “I wish you would.”
“Thanks!” When Ruthie closes her door, Quee turns back to the wall. “Things couldn’t last with him. How could they? She knew that, always had, and was always prepared for the day when they would agree that it was all over. What she wasn’t prepared for was that he would die.” She turns to Alicia. “Oh dear, sweetheart, how thoughtless of me.”
“Was it murder?” Alicia asks in an almost trancelike voice.
“Oh, no, honey, no.” Quee pats her on the shoulder. “This man took his own life. He was a burdened sad man, and he felt torn between lives.”
“You know, Tom Lowe’s father killed himself,” Denny offers. At this, Quee looks at Alicia and nods. “Yes, that’s right.”
“He told me all about it,” Denny says, eyebrows raised in anticipation of a response. “Do you think that means, you know, that he likes me or something? You know, since he is kind of the independent type?”
“I hear discussions of death are always a good sign.” Alicia remains deadpan until Quee laughs and gives her the reaction she had expected. The girl is finally starting to relax, the life slowly creeping back into her now that Jones Jameson isn’t all set up like a siphon to drain her soul. “So finish the story, and then let’s go give Ruthie and Mr. Radio Jr. a rubdown.”
“Well, when she got word that he was dead, she suddenly thought that there might have been something there for her. There might have been a note, something. And she went to the Ocean Forest expecting to find him there, but no, so she ran down the beach to where he was staying in a small house, one of those perched way up on pillars like a big spider. And she stood under the coolness of that house, complete silence over her head. The smell of pitch was in her nose and the wind had left her hair damp and tangled. Her heart was pounding so loud she could feel it in her neck and ears and as she stood there trying not to cry, trying to understand, she saw a scrap of paper over in front of the trash cans. It was damp and sticky but she recognized his handwriting. It said: ‘I loved you. I love you. Only now do I know how much. Only now do I . . .’ but the rest was torn away so she held on to this and she slipped it into her little pillbox and walked up to the top of the dunes, her scarf blowing while a passerby with no knowledge whatsoever of her loss clicked the shutter.”
“That’s beautiful,” Alicia says. “If only you could make a naked man in a pile of topsoil sound good.”
“There’s no way to do that, sweetheart.” Quee goes now and hugs Alicia into her, her big arms wrapping and squeezing. “I wish so much that I could. If I could, then you know that I would.”
“If you could, you’d be a magician.
”
“If I could, I’d be God.”
Tom Lowe has spent the whole day sitting on the beach. Once his property lines surfaced, he picked up an old soggy stick and drew his dream house. Now he and Blackbeard are stretched out in the master bedroom, dozing in and out with the sound of the surf and the whine of gulls overhead. He imagines glass everywhere in this house, a view from every angle. Today he has even drawn another bedroom—two other bedrooms—as if for a family. It’s hard to imagine, though not impossible.
Whenever he’s here, drifting and dozing, it’s like he’s a receiver of sorts, all kinds of images and words floating in and out of his mind. The grand staircase of the Titanic, ladies in ball gowns coming and going, the men working out in the gymnasium below, the seagulls circling above, or Atlantis, the underwater world. He imagines swimming in the deep, down at such a pitch-black depth that evolution has robbed some fish of their unnecessary eyes, swimming down and down, feeling over coral and rock and the debris of wreck after wreck, whale bone and rusty anchor, and then there is a door no bigger than a porthole that leads to a small chamber and then another and then another until finally he pushes free and swims out into a pure blue bay, a whole world encapsulated there at the bottom of the sea. He has gotten this far, swimming close to the shore with its fine white sand and shade just beyond. “I’m home,” he calls out, and Sarah is there looking just as she did in high school with cutoff jeans and a big embroidered peasant shirt that covers her shorts. Her hair is pulled back and tied with a big piece of yarn like the first time he saw her. But as he travels the fantasy, he gets interrupted, he hears people talking in the distance, people walking the beach in search of sand dollars and conchs, kids screaming and throwing Frisbees, and with all the distraction, all the noise, it’s hard to focus on Sarah’s face and instead he sees his father, how he must have looked when found by an old fisherman who heard the shot. Did his father think of him at all in those minutes? How could he, and with the image comes panic, the need to get back. There is an urgency—a need for light and for air.
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