The Judas Glass

by Michael Cadnum

“I’m alive.”

  “You are plausibly alive, yes. As a legal entity you may be more alive than you are from a medical standpoint. On the other hand, there was a death certificate issued.”

  “I have legal rights, Dr. Opal. You’ll certify that I’m alive, and then the death certificate will be rescinded—”

  He was shaking his head. “And you want to stay secret. One word of this. To anyone. Anybody at all. We’ll have television helicopters overhead, crashing into each other, in less than five minutes.”

  “I shouldn’t have put so much pressure on you.”

  “You know what you owe me? Fairness. Honesty. To me, and to yourself. You won’t be able to sell a house, you won’t be able to open a bank account, you won’t be able to get a library card.” He lifted a hand. “Well, maybe a library card. But you get my point.”

  I did get his point, but I didn’t like it. He was right, of course, and I had known this instinctively. But I didn’t want to accept what he was saying just now.

  “I was there,” he said. “I helped pick out the casket. I helped Connie pick out that tie. Connie insisted on a new suit, don’t ask me why. I planned the service with Connie. We included that passage I thought you always liked, the poem by George Herbert. I got up and I had to read it. I don’t know how I managed without breaking down. It was that kind of memorial service, people sharing what they remembered about you—”

  “Thank you for being such a help,” I said.

  I thought for a moment he was going to break into some powerful emotion, anger or sorrow.

  “You’re thinking of getting married,” I said.

  “Susan’s a lovely woman.”

  “You’re very lucky.”

  I parted my damp, three-button jacket, summer-weight wool. It was not a bad choice. What sort of conversation had passed between them? No, not the pinstripe, not navy blue. Too bad he doesn’t have a nice, dead black three-piece.

  “Please don’t go anywhere tonight,” he said. “I have all those cartoons you used to like, Road Runner, and Bluto getting beat up. They’re up in the game room.”

  I couldn’t help feeling pity for Dr. Opal. He actually thought I could spend the night watching classic cartoons. I couldn’t keep the affection from my voice. “Maybe I’ll take a look at them.”

  “Rest awhile. That’s the best thing a doctor can tell a patient.”

  I waited until he was asleep, and covered him with a blanket, tucking it carefully around him.

  Then I opened the sliding glass door and gazed at the field. It was not a flat plain of clods, anymore. The young orchard was in place, rows of trees. A small tractor was parked near the lawn. The sounds I had heard during the day, the voices, the sound of the iron drill—this was the result.

  From far away, beyond the garden, down the street somewhere, there were voices, laughter—people.

  I left to join them.

  24

  My body was dry inside, my organs working against each other, dust against dust. I folded myself into a crouch beside a barbecue, old ash in a brick fireplace.

  On the other side of the wall were the sounds of laughter, a woman’s voice. It was not a laugh of mirth as much as a social sound, flirtatious. A glass chimed, champagne. It was good wine, judging from the fine fizz of the bubbles.

  I was over the wall effortlessly, with a thought. Beyond the lawn a house was brightly lit. The windows threw light on the stepping-stones. A man in a dark suit was putting out glasses, dozens of them. Someone carried an ice bucket. A woman was bent over a table, arranging napkins, and as I looked on there were sounds of voices lifted in greeting, people arriving.

  I watched for what might have been a long while, too rapt to attempt much, fascinated by the theater beyond the dark. People were gathering. People were accepting drinks. People were eating little finger-sized sandwiches. I felt like a child at the head of a stairway, looking down at a party and thinking: the adult world.

  I could not resist the desire to enter the party. More people had arrived, and I wanted to be among them. I belonged there, among the attractive women, their necks and jewelry and slender wrists.

  There were sordid implications in what I was experiencing, but I did not allow myself to consider them. I persisted in the fantasy, clear as a scripted scenario in my hands, that I could walk into the party, introduce myself, and be welcomed, a man with a really interesting story to tell.

  I strolled over to the potted daphnes. They were flowering, the perfume of the tiny lavender-white trumpets so strong it was almost unpleasant. I felt loose-limbed and ready for whatever might happen.

  I did not have to wait long. A woman detached herself from the growing crowd, stepped to the sliding door, and, finding it slightly open, did not have to do more than slip out. She found her way across the stepping-stones.

  She was sporting narrow heels, and her step was mincing as she made her way out of the glare of the electric lights and opened her handbag. The clasp released, and she selected a cigarette with care, as though each one was significantly different from the others. When the cigarette was between her lips, she snapped a lighter and took a moment to touch the tip to the flame.

  She wore a black dress with black lace sleeves, her satin handbag glittering, accented with what I took to be rhinestones. I fit into a shadow cast by a wall, and then quietly matched the shape of a shadow thrown by a giant urn, a red clay container of earth. I moved on, fitting almost exactly within the shadow of a birch tree, the spindly twigs still bare.

  “Aren’t you cold out here?” said a voice. A male figure tiptoed around a snail on one of the stepping-stones.

  “It’s nice,” she said.

  “They ought to put some kind of poison out,” he said.

  She didn’t understand, or care.

  “Doesn’t it sort of drive you crazy to step on them?”

  A show of indifference.

  He said, “What really disgusts me is that pause before the crunch,” he said.

  She smoked.

  He said, “You’re just pissed off.”

  She dropped her cigarette, squashing it.

  “It’s a chance of a lifetime,” he said. “So I commute. We’ll be okay.”

  Her act of extinguishing the largely unconsumed cigarette had meant something, but he did not seem to notice.

  “Or maybe we won’t be,” she said.

  He shrugged. Like many people, he liked to maneuver in the small harbor of limited emotions. If love was difficult, he would survive without it. “Maybe we won’t.”

  I had the almost pleasurable sensation, as I watched these two strangers, of feeling that I knew them, that what they said was known to me before they said it, that I could read their feelings.

  She was not as hurt as she pretended to be. They were new to each other, still demonstrating how free they were to leave each other behind. I wanted to tell them to seize each other, forget everything, and find a place here on the soft grass and make love, now, without another word. But they insisted on talking.

  Now the glass door was open and other partygoers wandered outside. One of the men pointed to a place in the garden and said that he was thinking of a new room, a new wing, maybe enclosing the garden with dwelling space, a villa in the Roman style. The party was a housewarming, I gathered, the new owners expansive in their enjoyment of their new home.

  The couple strolled further into the garden, near the birch trees. He spoke about a salary, about how good the benefits were, and she responded with a feigned boredom, all of it like a rehearsal not going at all well, the wrong actors, the wrong lines.

  They walked a little farther, beyond easy view of the other celebrants, but it was not lust that kept them there. They were talking about where they would eat when they left. They were talking about wine lists. They were talking about a restaurant that had closed, how much better it was than any of the remaining places to eat. They could talk about anything, and they kept to this tired, shallow subject, what to do ne
xt.

  I enjoyed it, though. It was as though these two prime creatures were deliberately feigning stupidity, each mocking the other with more and more vapid remarks, waiting for a laugh so they could both break down and take each other in their arms, and admit it was all a joke—no one could stand here on a night like this and talk about which restaurant had the best chocolate truffles.

  I laughed.

  They stopped talking. The man looked my way, scratching his cheek. The young woman lifted one foot to adjust her shoe, working her finger under a patent leather strap. The sound of my laugh had disturbed her. She looked around, straightening her lace sleeves.

  “Champagne gives me an instant headache,” the young woman said, still looking in my direction. I felt a thrill—she could see me, but didn’t realize what she was looking at. “I think it’s the carbon dioxide,” the young woman was saying. “Or the sugar. I get so pissed off that people just expect you to stand around and get a migraine. They all know that I can’t drink.”

  The other party guests had paused, glanced absently in this direction, but they were turning now to examine the arthritic knobs of rose bushes, the new red leaves sprouting from the stumps.

  “Go in and get me some Diet Pepsi,” she said. But at the same time I could sense her shadow-thought. Don’t leave me alone.

  “We don’t have to hang around,” he said. “I’ll just tell them we have to go.”

  “Don’t put any ice in it,” she said. “Or better yet, see if they have any coffee.”

  They didn’t see what was happening as I left my place, and skimmed the grass, quickly, silently. But she heard something, putting out her hand to one of the trees.

  “Or aspirin,” she said. “That would be heaven.”

  The man made his way back toward the light, and stopped at a stepping-stone. He very deliberately put his weight on one foot, flattening a snail.

  The young woman turned back toward the house, looking toward the playhouse of colored lights, the sound of laughter. She didn’t want to stay here, so far from all of that. But she waited anyway, wanting him to get her what she needed from the house. She was a tapestry, hours of watching television, days of boredom, mistaking it for life, school, cars, her first sex in a hotel room with CNN on, statesmen, mouths talking. She reached for the remote with one hand while a climax pulled itself closer and closer.

  Surely this was not what I wanted. I was stepping very slowly toward her, drawing near. Until I was there with her, beside her.

  But I did not touch her. The actual scent of her body was disguised with counter-smells, crushed flower petals, alcohol. The tobacco smell surrounded her, slow to dissipate. Standing so close to her I was enveloped in an aura of smells, and, I saw, an actual aura, colors, the heat of her. She lived by getting people to do things for her. She ruled by suffering. Petulant, quick, she changed homes, and controlled men, by finding a new source of minor pain.

  But it was real, this anguish. She did not know how to take pleasure in a night like this. She was restless, demanding a plan, a schedule of events. She was smarter than most people, and thought she deserved to be somewhere better. She rubbed her arms with her hands.

  Shhhh.

  Just that, a non-word. Hush. Be still.

  I was the one who made this sound, I was the one who knew so much. She turned and saw me.

  “Who is it?” she asked, as though she almost recognized me, almost knew who I was.

  “Come away,” I whispered.

  How did I know exactly the words that would draw her after me? I had her by the hand, pulling her back into the mossy area near the wall, dark green.

  “Wait,” she said. Not waiting, following. I knew how I must look to her.

  A garden hose had been wound tightly and tucked away behind a stand of papyrus. The tall, pom-pom head stalks nodded, stirring, and one of her feet caught one of the outer loops of the hose. The hose sprang free, without a sound, the head of the hose a brass pistol-like device that fell outward, shifting across the lawn as the hose unwound, releasing all the tension the gardener had wound into it, forcing it into a spiral.

  Her eyes made me hesitate. There was an inner argument, a part of me telling myself that this was an outrage.

  It gushed as fast as I could swallow, and I closed my eyes. Her breath caught. She was choking, and I stroked her with one hand, soothing her, and I could feel her breath grow steady again, a long, slow exhalation, a long, peaceful intake of air as I lowered her to the ground. Her arms fell to either side, and her scarlet nail polish grew steadily blacker against the pallor of her skin.

  When I was finished, I gazed up at the gallery of lights, each smiling face a source of illumination. One man broke away from the group, saying he would be right back. He carried a cup and saucer, and approached us, calling her name.

  25

  As I drew closer to the party I entered the light that fell from the windows. I had never felt so sure I knew so many people. It was like one of those dreams, a homecoming, grandparents and uncles, a longed-for Thanksgiving.

  I was a sailor home from a war, a man after years of wandering. I had been away too long. This place belonged to me, this house, these people. I was dazzled by an insight I knew was an illusion, like a man boosted by cocaine into a clarity and optimism he had never experienced before.

  I looked down at my clothes, my hands, and I was amazed at the transformation. The patina of mildew on my jacket sleeves, that foxing on my skin, was gone. I knew the danger, but I could not stay away a moment longer.

  I entered the house.

  They’ll know at once, I warned myself. It will only take one look.

  As I passed people they fell silent, and turned my way. People followed me with their eyes. This was the worst place I could be. This was madness. But I could not separate myself from all these human beings. I wanted to be close to this crowd of faces, feel the heat of their bodies. Surely someone would recognize me. Surely one of them would turn out to be a landlord or a county supervisor, someone I had dismantled in court. Surely someone will look at me and know where I had been for so many months.

  “I’m so glad you could come,” said a voice.

  He took my hand. He was a tall man who had lost weight recently, the flesh on him loose, his smile bright but something unsteady in him. He wore a suit that was new, and tailored, I guessed, to fit his new, gaunt frame. I knew what he had been through. I could see it in his eyes, breathe it, his memories suddenly my own, the severed ribs, the weakness, the welcome visits of friends to his hospital bed.

  “How could I possibly stay away?” I heard myself ask.

  “You look terrific,” said my host, shaking my hand, not wanting to release me.

  “I have a cut,” I said. “I hope I didn’t get blood on your new suit.”

  The cut in my finger was bleeding, slightly, and he looked at it with the wonder of a worshiper touching the tears of a marble statue.

  “No problem,” he said with a laugh. My touch, perhaps even something about that tiny kiss of blood on his wrist, seemed to give him strength. “No problem at all. I’m really embarrassed. I know we’ve met, but I can’t place you.”

  “I just had to drop by,” I said.

  “I’m so glad you did,” he said. He leaned into me, one hand on my shoulder. “You know, I wasn’t sure I should even have a party.”

  “They can be a strain, meeting so many wonderful people at once.”

  “Well, it wasn’t just that. So soon after my operation, I wasn’t sure I was up to it.”

  “Your heart.”

  “Do you know how many people are walking around with pig valves? But when it happens to you, well, I keep thinking I shouldn’t be alive.” He held a nearly full glass of sparkling wine, but it was not alcohol that brought out this desire to confide. It was something about me.

  “It’s a miracle,” my host was saying. “But you know there’s a dark side to it.” He paused, perhaps surprised at his sudden desire to be fr
ank, to hunt for words to describe feelings he would ordinarily never admit. “There is a problem with depression after an operation like that.”

  “It’s more of a struggle than people realize,” I said.

  He squeezed my shoulder, delighted to find someone who understood him. “Something’s been altered inside,” he said, taking his large hand away from my shoulder and placing his fist over the place where his heart was beating, that other fist, inside, kneading life. “And your body knows it.”

  “Of course it does,” I said, dazzled by the power I had over this man.

  “You know, I really am surprised that you could make it—” This was the place in the conversation when I would supply my name, or give him some idea where we had met.

  The young man from outside joined us. He was breathing hard. “I can’t find Maura.”

  “Forget Maura,” said the host with a cheerful dismissiveness.

  “I got her some Excedrin,” said the young man. He held them in his hand, two white pills. “And some coffee.”

  “She probably went out to look at the stars,” said our host. “You can see them if you get far enough away from the houses, away from all this light.”

  “I can’t see Maura actually going out to look at the stars,” said the young man.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” I said.

  The young man toyed with the pills in the palm of his hand, slightly annoyed by them, as though they might dissolve. He slipped them into his pocket, meeting my eyes. He smiled cautiously. “I’m anxious about everything. I haven’t been able to sleep very well. I’m starting a new job.” Then his eyes narrowed, as though he recognized me. Or as though he mistrusted something about me, something about my appearance, my voice.

  “I’m surprised she could stand to leave such a wonderful gathering,” I said.

  Relax. Everything is fine. Like a county-fair charlatan, a stage hypnotist, I worked at his doubt, steaming it away. He was more vigorous physically, and less clouded by inner fears than my convalescent host. He gave me a slight frown, and I could see him wondering at what he saw, like a man looking at a wax dummy, or a work of art that wasn’t quite right.