The day of the funeral the rain beating on his umbrella had drowned out the words of the priest’s eulogy. He still wondered what he’d found to say about a man who had bullied his way through the world. He travelled back to the house alone, his sister taking a car to the station; he waved at her through the window, the water smearing her features. At the wake, his father’s friends gathered around him and he recognised some of them from the disused garage; he’d caught sight of them over his father’s shoulder carrying the dead bodies into the back of the building, into the shadows. One hugged him especially hard and lingered there looking into his eyes as if searching out the damage caused that day.
He was a good guy, he looked out for you, was all he said before crossing the room to grasp someone else’s arm.
The drive up to the house was long and cut between the extensive gardens and the lake. His mother had loved it here, this stately pile set as an absurd notion in the New Jersey countryside. We should get a butler, she’d joke, but there were always enough of his father’s men around to fetch them anything they might need.
He let himself in through the kitchen at the back. He rarely used the main doors, they were too unwieldy, too imposing, he always expected someone to be standing at the foot of the stairs announcing his name whenever he came through them. He walked into the main hall, checked the post and a note from the housekeeper who travelled out from the suburbs three times a week to administer to his and the house’s needs. She’d used his credit card for groceries and to pay the gardener. He looked out at the immaculate gardens reaching into the distance; worth every cent, he said to himself, folded the note and put it in his pocket.
He went into his study, reached down to the bottom drawer of his desk and unlocked it. Inside it were two handguns and a bunch of keys on a bronze ring like a school janitor might keep. He took the keys and closed the drawer. He went down the stairs and back into the hall. Beside the heavy gilt frame of an oil painting of the house was the cellar door. He selected a key and undid the padlock and then unlocked the door itself. The cellar was vast even in the gloom; he turned on the lights and the room lit up in stages, the overhead lamps buzzing into a white glare as squares of light brought every corner into stark relief. The back wall was set with tall racks of wine reaching nearly to the ceiling, a stepladder set against its corner. There was a workbench and tools and in the corner nearest to him were six boxes, matching oblongs of cheap wood with hinged doors. Two were open and empty, the other four bound with heavy chains and padlocks. He walked towards them; the figures inside were asleep, one stirred as he laid a reassuring hand on the lid. Hello, said a very small voice inside, as if in a dream. He shushed gently and put himself between the overhead light and the box to shield it from the glare. He stood there for a moment enjoying the stillness, his hand resting against the rough wood. He breathed deeply, traced a finger over the heavy links of the chain; and closed his eyes.
At the top of the stairs he turned out the lights and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness so he might make out the boxes once more. He pulled the door to and cupped the padlock and secured it into place. He waited there a moment and listened for the police sirens to start up, but everything was still. He walked towards the study, taking the stairs two at a time. Once there, he laid the keys on his desktop, tore a sheet of paper from his notepad and wrote a note to his housekeeper in pencil. He placed it on his desk and secured it with the ring of keys, they jangled pleasingly as he set them down. He turned to go and then paused, squatted, opened the drawer, took one of the handguns and pushed it into his waistband. He stood and admired the line it made in his reflection in the picture window. He picked up his bag as he left the room, whistling absent-mindedly as he took the stairs. He swung the expansive front door wide open and stepped out into the sunshine; someone had been kind enough to bring his car around for him. He threw the bag in the back seat, put the house behind him. Pointed the car west and drove.
Song 1: Fallen
The wind came at him at an angle, almost knocking him off his feet. The upturned colander on his head let the rain through, soaking his skull and pouring into his eyes. Should have taken the saucepan, he muttered to himself, but when he’d placed it on his head in the kitchen at home he couldn’t find an angle to suit him. The handle stuck out awkwardly at the front and drew his eyes to a point, made him cross-eyed, but then when he switched it back or to the side he felt like he was wearing a baseball cap propped back on his head. It didn’t feel like it had the impact he needed, it didn’t suit the gravity of the situation. He caught sight of his reflection in the overhead ceiling lamp, his image even more stretched and absurd. He snatched the pot from his head, reaching for the colander with his other hand.
He clanked and clanged in the wind. The sheets of tin and steel hanging off him in irregular oblongs and squares bounced and hummed against his ribs. One piece of sheeting kept catching him below the knee, causing him to wince and curse with the impact. It was dark, the winter night chasing the light blue out of the day with the promise of a night that threatened to keep falling. The field had belonged to his father; he was at its upper point, a slight rise set at one corner abutted by the right angle of a wooden fence. He held his arms out like he’d seen scarecrows do, scarecrows in this very field, but the weight of the dozens of iron rings on each arm and the working gloves, fingers riveted into place with small badges of protective steel, and the two squares of tin hanging on strong string from each arm pulled his determination down. From a distance he looked like he might be trying to fly, but in truth he could barely raise a steel-toed boot. The wind buffeted his body; the rain dashed itself against his makeshift armour. In the distance, miles away in the black sky over the nearest town, his town, somewhere over the gabled roof of his house, the clouds broke to reveal a small window of stars and then engaged again as he waited patiently for the heavens above him to splinter with white light, to judge the distance before the lightning was drawn inexorably to earth, to spear the field at his feet. A trail of knives, forks and spoons led away from him. He counted to ten before the brightness burst through the darkness, defining the edges of the sky as it flared and died. As if on cue he thrust himself forward, chin outstretched; rising up on his toes. He looked like an athlete bearing down on the finishing line, trying to win a race.
There was no such thing as the Space Race when he bobbed above the Earth in his miniature capsule that caused him to crouch as he entered its door. He could stretch out both arms and place his flat palms against each curved wall. If he unbuckled his harness he’d float little more than a foot or two upwards in the anti-gravity air before gently colliding with the control panels above him. As the 1950s faded, America was exploring the stars, firing rockets into the night sky, denying sightings and keeping a wary eye on their Russian counterparts. In 1946 America had sprung life on the Cosmos, shooting fruit flies at the night sky a full eleven years before the Soviet Union sent a dog into orbit. While he hung there in space he had often wondered if the dog had felt the loneliness he felt; strapped into her harness, electrodes attached to her chest, food and water just in reach. She’d been a stray rounded up on the streets of Moscow. They called her Laika, it translated as Barker in English. Funny, he thought, the things you remember. She was three when they gave her up to the sky. A cross-breed, a mongrel, mostly Siberian husky they said. The American press nicknamed her Muttnik and she’d died within days, two thousand miles away. He thought about her tracing her line around the Earth as he made his own lopsided circles through space. He caught sight of himself in the blackness of the glass, his image rebounding back to him as the night became its own void, always still yet always falling away. He wondered about the scientists who had sent Laika here, if they’d embraced her, tears filling their eyes, as they loaded her into the capsule, knowing they weren’t going to be bringing her back?
He’d left quietly at two in the morning, a lone silver figure on the slick tarmac under the floodlights, the gleam of
his domed helmet ricocheting crosses of light. He turned to wave as he entered the tip of the rocket, but there was no one to wave to – the remote figures in the control tower were hazy and a long way off – so he made do with shaking the hands of the lieutenant and his assistant who were helping him board. There was a reassuring grip on his shoulder as he was pulled tight and then the satisfying click as he was locked into place, the door closing with a gasp, cocooning him into the vacuum. He lay there, knees raised, appraising the darkness before him. There were no stars to see, but somewhere up there was a point he and his ship were already allied to. The voices murmured in his ear, he heard someone say good luck, someone else said break a leg and there was a round of good-natured laughter. Then the world was shaking and smoke obscured his view, but his eyes were already closed as he was raised heavenward, a slight cylinder easing upwards leaving a trail of flames, like torches spiked across the night showing the way, before the rocket was gathered up, leaving only wonder for those who might have seen it pass.
He was to stay there for three days, looking out on the encroaching darkness, while they recorded his heart rate, checked his blood pressure, made calculations and wrote them down, dissected him, recorded earthly things as he paraded high above them, above the shimmering glow of the world. He’d fall into a stupor momentarily, be with his family, standing with his father looking out across his land, spot crows circling overhead, wary of the static figure in the field below. Nights they’d sit out on the step of their farm and watch storms crash into the land around them. Bolts of lightning careening into the crops, corn bending with the weight of the rain. He’d bow his head involuntarily as the sky shook, he thought he’d never get used to the sound of thunder. He’d jump and his dad would chuckle and lay his hand on his head and pull him close. The earth, he’d say, never smells as good as once a storm’s passed. His father would stand there the next morning, a silhouette against the sun, head tilted back, feeling the warmth of the day on his face. He’d take a breath and hold it, letting it go with a sigh.
The Indian Ocean was below him; he recognised it from his sheaf of maps and charts, its shape at least. It glimmered invitingly and he wanted to be up to his shoulders in its warm waters, gazing up into the pale blue that folded up into the darkness that held him. When he’d first flown jets at the edge of space, at the edge of the sky, he’d seen the orange light flatten out into shades of blue, azure and purple and into black. He had forced himself to hold his line, wanting to wrest himself away from the precipice, maintaining his position between heaven and earth until the voice in his earpiece called him down, letting him drop his wings and fall back to the familiar criss-cross of runways that signalled the approach of his base. When they told him they were sending him into space, he had felt elation and fear. He’d seen the stratosphere, said the Colonel across the desk, now it was time for him to reach out and touch it. Exosphere, he’d told him, not stratosphere, he’d be touching the exosphere. The Colonel had creased his brow and pushed the envelope filled with his orders at him and he’d left the office without another word. At home he’d sat at his kitchen table, the papers fanned out before him, Confidential stamped across every page. He stroked a bottle of beer distractedly, making notes and doodles in the margins. It broke down into three simple parts; take off at night, orbit the planet for seventy-two hours – his vital signs tattooed back to earth by electrical impulse – then land in the ocean off the Florida coast just before dawn where they’d fish him out of the sea and, debrief him for days. He was promised leave afterwards, but in the confines of the camp, in case they needed to keep an eye on him. You never knew what could happen, they said, to the first American in space.
His father spoke to him first. He was upside down when the voice filled the capsule. He looked up and realised he was looking down towards the earth, inverted in his seat. It was morning and the sky outside was glowing which meant that snow had fallen overnight. His bedroom was white as if the flakes had seeped in at the ceiling’s joists and settled in deep drifts. His father was outside calling his name, Joe, Joey, get out here. He looked out of the window, his father’s footsteps leaving tracks that led away from the house into the cornfield to the west. The sun on the snow dazzled him; he thought he could see his father waving, his black jacket, the red hat he pulled onto his head almost every time he stepped out of the door, a gloved hand making a wide arc in the air, then the corn rustled as he disappeared among its long stems. He was outside now, each crunching step leading him to the perimeter of the field. Far above and below the African continent drifted by, the distant sun striking his capsule as its beams reached down to bake the ground. The light hurt his eyes even behind the reflective pane of glass that dominated his helmet. He stepped into the corn and was lost, each time he pulled a stalk aside snow fell into his hair, onto his hands. He’d forgotten his gloves, his hat, his bunched fingers were already pink and numb. He pushed his way in, light breaking through momentarily as the dense swathes of the tall, pale grey crop moved aside, closing behind him with a crack, shuddering and upright, resuming their unwavering stance. What ocean was that? He was losing his bearings. His father was standing before him as his capsule turned into the brightness of the sun, the yellow light burning into white. His father was saying something to him, pulling him close, the corn behind him, he reached out to touch his father’s face, a child’s hand on his ruddy cheek, the wind picking up, everything drawn in detail. His father’s hand covering his own, you’re cold, he said, and pulled him close. The sun became engorged and huge, bearing down on both of them, everything consumed, glowing like hot coals, the quickly melting snow and then a rumble and clap and the searing flash of burning white and then they were gone leaving just the corn and the crows above picked out like small black crosses scratched on the great steel plate of the sky.
They pulled him out of the sea around four thirty in the morning, minutes behind schedule. He told them drowsily he admired their timekeeping as they carried him from his craft to theirs. He saw his capsule rising from the choppy waters; it looked minute even when wrapped in chains; they were already covering it with heavy tarpaulin, secreting it away. It would undergo as many tests as him over the next few days. He felt the sway of the boat, the low thrum of the engine making headway towards the coast. Then he was in the air, the swish of the helicopter’s blades making hazy revolutions above him. How’s he doing? asked the pilot, looking back at him over his shoulder, his black visor covering his eyes. He’s doing great, someone said, and he wondered if it were true.
Three days later and the base psychologist was looking over his testimony, eyes momentarily distracted from the page, assessing him over the top of the file he was holding. His eyes darting across the page, then a flicker of curiosity and he’d appraise him again, as if staring across at him might suddenly reveal an insight missing from the information he had been given. Your vital signs were all good, he said, laying the file on the table, his hand tapping distractedly on its cover. The things you said you saw, no irregularities even then, nothing untoward, nothing out of the obvious. The windows were frosted, the sound of the base outside; the drone of trucks and jeeps, the call and return of conversation, someone said sir abruptly, aircraft buzzed by. The office was still, however; the psychologist wore a white coat as if they were in lab conditions.
What do you think you saw out there? he said. I don’t know what I saw, he replied. It might have been a dream, I suppose. I had no concept of day or night, up or down. He didn’t think it was a dream though, but now he wished he’d never mentioned his father, his figure filling with light, how the interior of the capsule became so bright that he felt the light passing through his eyelids and filling his skull. He’d filed his report, told them of the hours spinning in space, the feeling of weightlessness, the earth from above, the ache of solitude, how the heavens made him feel cold even though his body temperature remained consistent throughout. He didn’t tell them that he’d been scared, terrified of the windows of his
ship splintering in their frames, the pressure worrying his skeleton down to nothing, his eyes being forced deep into his head. Machismo had made him wary of telling them about that, but touching his father’s face, being suspended in space, feeling elation then the terrible loss, he thought that might be important, that every journey might cost more than toil, than money, that you might have to pay with something intangible, that you might have to give of yourself.
The universe, he said to the psychologist seated opposite him, it might take as well as give. He told him about the emptiness, about the new hollow at the core of his being and the wonder he found out there among the stars. And while they talked, the doctor nodded and made agreeable noises in the back of his throat and his hand dashed across his notebook taking everything down.
He was formally discharged three months later. They draped him with honours, guaranteed him a pension for life and made him write his name on dozens and dozens of sheets of paper. His endless looping signature guaranteeing his silence and his loyalty. The colonel told him he was sorry to see him go, but he couldn’t hide the surprise in his eyes when he saw how much weight he’d lost. Later, he’d ask if the pilot’s shrinking frame had anything to do with the space flight and he was told that they didn’t know for certain, that it would take time, that it might be the grief that was causing him to fade. Grief? said the colonel. The mission was a success, what did he have to grieve over? They didn’t know, they said, they just didn’t know.
Cross Country Murder Song Page 2