It is about 80 degrees even this early in Galveston in June, and he is sweating a bit as he runs through the dark, though not soaked like he would be in the afternoon sunlight. Sometimes he can make it through an entire run in the early morning without seeing a car. One morning he’d been running along when a girl pedaled up beside him on a bicycle and paced him for a while. He recognized her from years back; she had been beautiful then and was still real attractive. They had talked for a bit as he ran, him remembering that he had heard she turned tricks now, recalling seeing her on a bench on the seawall, stretching this way and that, looking suggestive. After a couple of miles she invited him to her house. It had been just a short time before dawn then, and he was thinking she looked like she had been up all night. He had remembered also hearing somewhere that she had AIDS, and so he had declined the invitation, regretfully. She had still been a very sexy woman. He had always thought so. If she had caught him some other morning he might have taken the risk. Almost certainly would have after drinking a few beers. But he had someplace to go after his run that particular day. She had given him the address, and he’d said he would come by. But he never did. A few years later he heard that she had died.
He thinks about seeing the pictures of the recently deceased in the obits and the tendency he has to read something … unfinished into them. They had died after all, and are gone, or if not, then are at least someplace else, somewhere that they can’t be reached. As far as he knows. Looking at their pictures, he often peered at their faces, searching for some telltale clue to their ending, and therefore lack of good fortune, in some form or fashion. Not the old folks that died: that was normal and expected. But the youngsters, those cut down by this or that before their time. He couldn’t help but look for something in their expressions, some sign. Maybe it was politically incorrect, but he couldn’t seem to shake the urge. But they seem no different than anybody else. There is no reason to be found.
Blaine has never told that to anybody. And it fights the natural feeling of sympathy that is present when he sees some young person cut down in their prime, by disease or accident. That feeling is inside him also, alongside his sense of their misfortune. For what could be worse than to be young and alive and full of vigor, with all of it stretching out in front of you like an interstate highway going cross country, and to get brought down before you really even got started on your journey.
And of course he is thinking about himself and how lucky he is to be still here, alive and running down this road in the lightening darkness, on the rich side of town, with the sweat pooling under his arms and on his back. The stars are twinkling up above in a clear sky, unimaginable distances away as he runs easily now, makes his turn and heads for home.
He had almost been one of those pictures in the obits. Folks would have been gazing at his likeness, and he would have been willing to bet that some of them would have felt that same sense of his loss that he feels when he looks. It had been so close. That is what he knows. He doesn’t remember specifics. Maybe he never will. But he knows he had been gone. Like he knows the breath coursing in and out in steady streams through his lungs now. What he doesn’t know is how he made it back into the land of the living. The force that reached out and pulled him back into this wonderful, chaotic mess. Maybe the answer is hidden somewhere inside of him, and he will find it. If he does, it will be an answer he never expected to have.
Chapter 6
He showers up, puts fresh jeans on, and sits at the table reading about mirror neurons. These are the neurons that fire when you make some action. The funny thing is that the same neurons fire, also, when you watch somebody else make that action. Different theories about how they came to be. The one Blaine likes is that they started out when we were living in the trees as the neurons that coordinated when we swung through the branches. You know, you had a visual map and a motor action map, and they charted onto one another. If they didn’t do that, we wouldn’t have lasted up in the air very long. The other thing is that those kinds of cross-mappings would have given a good base for metaphors way later, which is a subject dear to Blaine. Metaphor isn’t just a figure of speech. He thinks it is the basis of the human ability to think abstractly. Metaphor is the way we get from concrete to abstract. The stuff writers do is more important than they realize. But back to the mirror neurons. Then sometime long after that, probably, they developed the capacity to mirror other individuals' acts, and the beginnings of empathy were born. The beginning of that theory of mind that humans had to have to become the social beings they were.
Because we spend so much time, he thinks, dealing with other people, and thinking about what they know, and what they know we know, and so on, and that type of system would never have gotten off the ground without something like the mirror neurons.
And his studies of the brain had led him to the opinion, expressed by many scientists, and true in a historical sense also, that concepts, the divisions that we had made in the world down through our evolution as a species, were prior to language, and the beginning of our language, the places where we had first hung our labels. The spots where our language grounded out, so to speak.
You have the facts, he thinks, and you have the stories. We are all heroes of our own tales. The facts are like needles stuck into the terrain. They are permanent. But the stories are like threads that run through the eyes of the needles. They can go any which way, through any combination of the needles. They are the stories of our lives, and the ways they go and the needles they go through are largely up to the teller. Scientific theories are the same way, he thinks. They are stories about the facts. Explanations of the facts. They are always provisional.
Language is the double-edged sword, in Blaine’s mind. The can’t live with it, can’t live without it. For better or worse, it is one of the things that make us what we are. Perhaps the one crucial element. And that is the delicate wire that he walks whenever he writes. See, the thing about scientists in their work is that they are forever searching for this shining star called truth that seems to hang beyond their reach. They kept reaching, though, getting closer and closer, and it is inspirational to Blaine. But people, you need to watch people. People aren’t about truth all or even most of the time. People are about survival and self. Not to say there aren’t good folks: there are plenty. But they do bear watching.
Chapter 7
So, it’s mid-morning by now, and Blaine is thinking about hitting the sack for a nap when the doorbell rings again. He opens it, and standing there with a pot of something in her hand is his ex-girlfriend Renee.
"I heard about your accident," she says. "Brought you some soup."
"Come on in," he says, opens the door and steps aside for her.
"Place hasn’t changed much," she says, heading for the kitchen, where she sets the pot on the stove and turns back to him. She looks at the dining table, where his books lay scattered all over. "You must be all right, got the books going on."
"I’m okay," he says, looking at her. She looks hot as always, dressed in shorts that show off her curves and one of those Tees they make for women that are softer material, with a lower neckline showing off a hint of her breasts. She always had been sexy. She is wearing some type of fragrance. It is light and easy on his nose.
She grabs bowls from the cabinet and spoons from the drawer, dishes the soup up, and he moves some of the books to make room to eat. The soup is more of a chicken stew, really: with potatoes and rice, carrots, celery, broccoli, mushrooms. It is dynamite. She had always been a good cook. And a nourishing, caring person, in her own way.
She just likes men too much, is what he thinks. Her dad had left the house when she was just a baby, and she didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, or maybe that is only his interpretation. They had had a good relationship going; she wasn’t the most intellectual of people, but she was smart. More the practical type. And of course, great-looking in a distinctive way that you wouldn’t really call beautiful. Nose a touch long, maybe, and
mouth too wide. Green eyes too sharp and knowing. But it all worked for her, and it had worked for him too. Warmed him like a bonfire.
Because that was the thing about love: it blinded you. It was a blaze that gathered so much light you couldn’t see clearly, and with so much warmth it filled your senses, and intellectual incompatibility was such an abstract deal that it sometimes didn’t even enter the picture. Didn’t seem an issue. He remembers in that movie, Havana, Redford's character had been as right as right could be about the important things being prior to, and the foundation of, language.
"Soup's great," he grunts as he hits the bottom of the bowl and starts tilting it to the side to get the last remaining dregs.
"Glad you like it," she says, yawning, stretching her arms up and out in a way that lifts her breasts, and seems invitational to him. She is sexy. He had asked her to marry him but she had said that she wasn’t ready for that, didn’t want to commit. They had been living together about a year at that point, and he had thought that they were committed, but apparently not. The fact that he really didn’t have a stable income had been mentioned after her refusal had blossomed into an argument; and after that she had finally divulged that she had seen another man while they were together: two of them in fact, and the last one not very long prior.
She seems to be tantalizing him, looking at him now, bringing those arms down, and he thinks how it always seems that one person has more power in every relationship; it is very difficult to have a 50/50 deal, and if he had to say who had the power in theirs, he would say probably she did. Though he fights it like crazy. Like right now he is thinking about asking her into the bedroom, or just leaning over and smacking her on those big lips then maybe running his hands all over her butt, and since it had been him who actually kicked her out after the big fight and her revelations about other men, then he would be going back on his decision to make a clean break with her if he couldn’t have the type of relationship he desired.
It has been a long six months since all that, and he has gotten used to his loneliness, but it took a while, kind of like breaking a drug habit, he bets. Lucky for him he had always been the reclusive type anyway because she had put a big hole right smack in the center of his life.
"So you look good for a guy that died," she says. "How did that feel?"
"I saw a long, long tunnel with a brilliant light at the end," he says seriously. She laughs, uncertain if he is joking. "No, really," he says, "then I heard this voice. It seemed like it was all around me. It was a deep, deep baritone. Sounded like God, maybe." She is buying in now, he can see, leaning forward, breathing a tiny bit faster. "The voice said ‘I have a plan for you and it’s not finished. You need to go back.’"
"Bullshit," Renee says, but there is a touch of uncertainty in her tone. He pauses for a long minute, giving her sincerity, making her wonder, but finally laughs.
"I really don’t remember anything," he says. "The doc says I may get some of that memory back or I might not. More likely not, he told me, in these trauma cases. I have been thinking about it, though, and it seems to me that I should appreciate this opportunity I’ve been given, this second chance."
"Couldn’t hurt," she says. "It’s always good to get a second chance. It doesn’t happen that often."
She is looking down with a strange look on her face, and he has leaned over and touched her before he knows he is going to do it, and when she looks up he does smack those big lips, and before you can say boo they are in the bedroom, and it is like the past six months have been a long, bad dream, and he has woken up.
Chapter 8
They are stretched out, touching each other now and then in different spots, kissing occasionally, love-making done for a bit, getting reacquainted. Blaine has that good post-coital bliss going, feels really relaxed, but that goes away after a time, and like the junkie he speculates he is, he needs another hit of her. So they do that, and then he is really relaxed: her too, he can tell, and they fall asleep on each other for a time and wake up. She turns on her side with the sheet trailing down off her, and he is treated to the sight of her round, naked ass and the outlines of the knobby bones in her spine showing through translucently healthy skin. Quite a sight it is, and it makes his loneliness even more apparent in his mind.
It is afternoon by now, and Blaine rolls over to look at her face-to-face: hombre a mujer.
"Did not see that coming," he says.
"Why," she replies, "you didn’t miss me that much?"
"Oh, I missed you. I just thought that I had worked through it, gotten over it. Apparently not."
"I took advantage of you in a weak moment," she says, smiling at him, licking her lips, and he kisses her again, trying to follow that tongue.
"Apparently so."
"You were still dazzled by the light from the tunnel."
He sighs. She doesn’t forget much. Not that great on forgiveness either. "Hey," he says. "That experience has changed me. It’s made me realize how short this all can be. That it can all be taken away any minute."
"You don’t feel like fate has chosen you, got your name now?" she asks. "Like you’re invincible?"
He is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. "Nope," he says, "exact opposite, if anything. I feel like I got a chance that I shouldn’t have gotten, an extra free shot. Like maybe I ought to be more careful, not so reckless."
"You don’t feel like somebody up there is on your side?" she asks, propping up on her side on her elbow, looking down at him.
He thinks about that for a minute. "You know I believe in science," he says. "Reasonable explanations and all that. But I have never been able to get rid of the feeling that the universe is not just this totally impartial, uncaring place. I’ve always felt that we’re more part of everything than we realize; that maybe the scientific viewpoint is only part of what is going on; that what is going on is bigger than that, somehow. That maybe we have resources to call on that we just don’t realize."
She’s interested now, he can tell. "You mean like supernatural things, ESP type things?"
"No, not really."
"You mean religious things? God?"
"No," he says. "Not in the sense that people usually mean that."
"Well, what do you mean?"
"I think we’re connected in ways we don’t completely understand," Blaine says, clears his throat. "To each other and to everything else." He realizes he is sounding a bit whacked, like one of those Eastern mystics.
"So you are thinking that maybe you called out for help in some way when you were dying," she says, "and somehow got an answer?"
"Yes," he says without thinking, then, "No. I don’t know. I wish the memory would come back to me. Then I would know more, anyway. It’s a funny feeling not remembering something so important. Like I should know."
They fight the nasty urge to get out of bed by ringing the bell for round three of their bout, and he’s thinking that she is way ahead on points; he will lose for certain if they go to the judges’ scorecards, so he makes the big move, and he is pretty sure he has her reeling: a feeling she confirms after a few minutes more. Then they both fall sound asleep again. When he wakes this time and wakes her, he can see through the slits of the blinds that they have loved the day away, and evening is falling outside.
He had been like a starving orphan chewing on a crust of bread during round one, but his equilibrium has been reestablished now, and he feels more comfortable when she reacts to his touch by opening her eyes and blinking up at him.
"So what about us?" she asks, looking up.
"I don’t know," he says, looking down. "Maybe I was wrong to force the issue of marriage and all. Are you seeing someone now?"
"I was for a while after we split, but I decided to take a break from men, get my bearings."
Not a bad idea, he thinks, for her to think about things for a bit. He doesn’t trust the fact that she had never had a strong male influence in her life growing up. To him it meant she didn’t have a real
model to compare men to, something to judge them against. So, she was necessarily feeling her way through the relationship deal somewhat blindly. No polar star to steer against. It wasn’t her fault, really, but in his mind it raised doubts about counting on her. And that was what it was all about, wasn’t it? Someone you could count on and who could count on you. All the rest of it was just lust and empty rhetoric.
"Does that mean you're seeing women?" he asks.
She pinches him hard, which really isn't an answer, but he lets it go.
He knows he’s oversimplifying; he can feel it. He has that tendency. He wants to pull things apart and analyze them, but a lot of the time they are more than the sum of their parts. That was what he had been thinking about the scientific world view, also.
"I missed you," he says. "It took more than you know to break away from you. I don’t know how many times I can do that."
"Let’s just not push for a while," she says: "Just wing it, play it by ear: think about it. Could we do that?"
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