The Inner City

by Karen Heuler

  “But why wouldn’t God give everyone the higher soul?”

  “He does; they choose what to do with it.”

  “Why can’t they all be saved?” Jonah cried.

  “They don’t want it.”

  Jonah stopped. He knew there was no use in arguing, that everything he said would float out alone to be swatted by his father’s voice. He could never feel his own conviction; he seemed too new at it. But his parents’ faith seemed so sure. He regretted it, that he would leave Joey behind, but it had also, in a strange way, seemed obvious. Joey wasn’t like them. He wasn’t like Joey.

  “What if the date was right?” Jonah whispered. He could see his father’s mouth twist. “And we weren’t the ones who were called?”

  Jonah went to Joey’s house to see if Joey really did have a dog. He felt responsible for it, because of the way Joey had talked about the left-behind dogs.

  Mrs. Pattimpot answered the door, red-eyed, exhausted. “You can’t have his dog. What did you say your name was? Oh, yes, he talked about you.” She looked away above the trees, then her glance came down again. “I don’t know about a pact. I don’t know.” She didn’t seem to be deciding anything. “I don’t know. For a while, okay. Just leave me your address and phone number.”

  She stepped back, opening the door. Behind him, its tail tucked, its ears flat, was a little gray dog. Kind of curly-haired; mournful, shivery.

  He bent down and picked it up.

  “Wait!” Mrs. Pattimpot said, and went deep inside the house. She came back with a plastic shopping bag. “Buster’s dog food,” she said, handing it to Jonah.

  She closed the door as soon as he stepped outside. Jonah looked in the bag and found a leash. He clipped it onto Buster’s collar, and talked to the dog in a soothing tone. “It’s perfectly all right. Joey is the one who told me all about you, so nothing bad will happen. You won’t be alone,” he said firmly. “We’re going to rescue all of them.” He stopped and took a sheet of paper from his pocket. His lips moved as he read the next address. There was an old Labrador in the yard there who looked at him hopefully. “Shane,” he said, “come along, Shane.” He went to Matt’s house and collected Sophie, then to Sandy’s and got the two Chichuahuas, Lefty and Righty.

  The dogs sniffed each other, wagged their tails, showed their teeth, but none of them fought. The males took their turns lifting their legs on a post or a tree, and they would have done it endlessly, one after the other, if Jonah hadn’t grown tired of it.

  He took the dogs home, locked them in his room, and went out for the rest. When his parents came home, they paused outside their door, listening to the yapping. There was a note on the door: Don’t come in yet. Dogs loose—Jonah.

  They knocked, and Jonah opened a window and leaned out. The wild yapping was louder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you’ll have to go somewhere else for a while, just till I figure it out. The house is filled with dogs. There’s no more room.”

  “Jonah—” his father said sternly.

  “The problem is, they’re excited. I think they’d bite if anyone else came in. They’re sorting themselves out—you know, hierarchy. They’re finding their hierarchy. Could you give me a few hours?”

  His parents stood there, listening. Ann Mary squeezed Paul’s hand. “Jonah, are you safe in there?”

  “Oh, I’m safe, sure. They like me. I just think they need to settle down a little.” He bent down and disappeared for a moment. When he popped up again, he had Buster in his arms. “This is Joey’s dog.” He flushed a little. “I said I’d take care of him. The other dogs belonged to the rest of the kids who died.”

  His parents were silent for a while. “All right,” his father finally sighed. “But you have to get them in order. Put them in the yard or downstairs or something. They can’t be everywhere. And you have to give them back eventually, you know. They’re not yours.”

  The Reverend’s house was in an uproar. Church members came and went, grouped on the porch or in the living room, in the back yard. Half the congregation thought the Rapture had taken place without them; half thought their math was wrong, or they had used the wrong calendar. Quite possibly calendars themselves were artificial counting tools.

  “It’s the nature of inspiration,” one member was heatedly saying, “to have specific meanings, not universal meanings, so the predictions might apply to some, not all.”

  “Of course, no one argues with that, but we’re the some. We’re the ones.”

  “Do you even hear your lack of humility? Can you wonder why you were left behind?”

  “Not left behind—just waiting a little longer—unlike some people who think you either flip the card or don’t flip the card in the universe—”

  “Now what that means I don’t even think you can explain—”

  Paul and Ann Mary and Gina stood in the backyard, listening to the arguments around them. Ann Mary slipped her hand inside her husband’s hand. They had hoped to talk to the Reverend about Jonah and the dogs.

  “There was a transposition,” someone argued. “The commonest mistakes. Nine years from now—”

  “Or nine years ago—or nine days, or nine hours ago—if it’s a mistake, who says it’s in favour of the future?”

  “Because we’re still here,” an exasperated voice cried, and the debate raged on.

  “This is no good,” Ann Mary said finally.

  Paul looked around and felt very lonely. It was something he hadn’t felt in decades—had thought he’d escaped, and yet here it was, filling his heart like smoke.

  They walked home slowly. There were candles placed in front of a tree at one house, with stuffed bears. They stopped, gazing at the display

  “I want to give them my sympathy,” Paul said and turned towards it.

  “I’m sorry,” Paul said when a man answered the door. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Did you know Sherry?” the man said. “I’m the one who said she could go. I should have told her to come straight home. But how could I know?”

  A few blocks later, Ann Mary looked down to the right and saw a bunch of cars parked in the street, and people gathered. They turned that way. A woman carrying a casserole fell into step beside them. “Did you know Clare?”

  “No,” said Ann Mary. “But we feel so saddened by all this.” She hesitated. “It could have happened to anyone.”

  “It could have been all of us,” the neighbour agreed. “So strange. She was just filling in for the regular bus driver. That’s the kind of thing that will drive Bill crazy, won’t it? The hand of fate, the hand of God, dumb luck, whatever. What if she’d run late. Or run early. Hard to think about.”

  “Very hard,” Paul agreed. The woman left, and they continued walking. Finally Paul said, “If it had been our bus with our people, there would have been no doubt.” He didn’t finish the thought.

  “Paul, this wasn’t it,” Ann Mary sighed.

  “The church is dividing up,” he answered. “Those who believe it happened without us, and those who believe we got our math wrong. Who’s right? The ones who can’t do math or the ones who think God skipped over us?”

  She signed. “Jonah is upset because he lost his friend. Why are you upset?”

  Paul was silent for a moment. “Don’t you wonder? That we might have been wrong?”

  “It would be unbearable,” she said slowly. “To think what you’re thinking. Pray, Paul. This is not the time to stop talking to God.”

  Jonah let them come in. “But be careful about the dogs,” he warned.

  “We have to discuss the dogs,” Ann Mary said firmly. “The big ones have to stay outside. At least for a while.”

  “No,” Jonah said.

  He seemed, suddenly, older. Ann Mary studied him. “At least the ones that are bigger than Gina,” she said finally.

  He nodded, and the crowd of dogs followed him to the back door. He grabbed the bigger ones and pushed them through to the outside, where they began to race around. />
  “Jonah,” Ann Mary said. “What can we do? I’ve lost something too, but we have to hold on to each other. I know that. What can I do to hold on to you?”

  Jonah felt a small release in his heart, and he hated it. “I want to see where Joey died,” he answered.

  His mother rocked back, noting that he had said “died,” not “ascended.”

  “Yes,”’ she said.

  They were quiet on the drive out of town. They took the road that led uphill, along the back valley roads. They came to a curve that showed them a smashed spot ahead: flown trees, tires, scraps of metal. There was a wooden barricade with a blinking light closing off one lane. Jonah reminded himself that it had happened a day ago. That seemed too much time; he didn’t want to get so far away from when Joey was alive.

  They pulled up to the wooden barricade, a puny thing; what was the point? Part of the guardrail was out, of course; but the wooden sawhorse would keep nothing from going over.

  They got out of the car and stood looking at the path of the tornado—bent trees, snapped trees, and a stripped path—clear but brown and aching—straight through.

  The weather was changing again; they could feel the wind scraping against their eyes.

  Gina had taken Buster with her, Joey’s dog, to see Joey’s last place alive. Jonah noticed the dog dangling from Gina’s embrace, one leg thrown out straight, not able to fit in the crook of her arm.

  “He was right here when it happened,” Jonah said. “Probably looking out the window the wrong way. I mean, on the other side of the bus, where nothing was happening.”

  “It’s getting dark,” Ann Mary said. “We should go.”

  “Just clouds,” Paul said. “You know how the weather’s been lately. We could use the rain.”

  “Mom?” Gina said, pointing at where the valley was narrow. The trees were rippling.

  They all looked and paused. Ann Mary put her hand on Gina’s shoulder, gripping too hard, but Gina leaned into her, gripping Buster too hard.

  “Good Lord,” Paul whispered. His voice rose on the last word. Ann Mary squinted, leaned into the wind, and looked at her husband’s beatific face. Her heart rose, too.

  Jonah thought only of Joey, caught in the grip of the wind, and how much he had missed him already, and how impossible it would be to go on missing him.

  The wooden saw horse flew away—out ahead of them, like something jerked by a magnet. It looked like a wide, dirty cloud dipping its head at them . . . a whirlwind, a spout. It was rushing towards them and as it rushed it got broader and thicker and there was a sound—a big shout in the background of the other shouts.

  As Jonah watched he saw two thin spouts split off from the massive centre, one to each side. They tipped away from each other and then magnetically the feet of their spouts drew back in to the centre and the high wide whirling wash of it took a breath and rushed forward.

  The horizon twitched and rolled towards them and the renewed tornado bore down on them, shrieking.

  It took up leftover trees and pieces of earth; things were lifted and swirled, intact, for half a rotation and then they went to pieces, the smallest parts swinging up ahead of the largest. A mailbox from down the road faced forward, standing upright, as if it were being shooed.

  The lifting up was stunning and fast. The tornado jiggled to the right and swept up trees and a rock and a baler. Joey thought he saw birds being pulled in, because he saw things pulled in now, not just lifted up. An old boundary wall got pulled up like a carpet, and a small wood outbuilding fell apart and got swept up all at the same time, rising in pieces almost neatly disassembled. And was there a man in there too? He was sure now he could see people rotating up the wide whirl of it, some upside down, some with their arms out, as if to steady themselves. There was a dog, too, and it seemed that its mouth was moving, that it was barking, all astonished, as it was turned and disappeared. The dog hurt his heart.

  His mother started forward, then looked back at them, laughed, said something that couldn’t be heard, then faced back into it. Her hair was straight up now, blown up.

  He could barely breathe. With all that wind, there seemed to be too little air. He was afraid but he was thrilled, too. His father, bent over, tried to make his way to Ann Mary, and Gina fell over and then fell up, and the dog ran to the side and then got knocked over. His mother turned again and her face was splendid.

  His father reached an arm out to him and grinned. He was rising, that’s all he knew, and his heart, already beating wildly, beat hopefully. He reached his hand out and grabbed, feeling his father’s hands close on his. He shouted for joy. His back arced as he rose. He held his eyes open. It was glory, it was glory, it was glory.

  THE ESCAPE ARTIST

  I am dizzy with height, breathless. The wind up here is so strong it has fingers, fists, walls, even waterfalls in it.

  The rope—thick as my wrist—is curved like an inverted horizon. Einstein rules here; for left to right, top to bottom, no plane is straight. The wind takes part of the rope and pushes it, slow motion, as if to shake me off. But I can resist the wind.

  It’s so high up here, with the rope stretched between the Twin Towers, that I know the truth: distance is the secret at the heart of things.

  I am afraid of heights; I am in love with heights. Only someone this terrified would climb so high, so far, so free, so pure.

  I never look down. Looking down has the fatal flaw of attraction in it. I like the moment when the rope is set, when it slides in the wind, and I pause on the edge of the roof. The sound of the air blows every other thought away and all I see around me is space without confines, just space—and the rope—and there, appearing just in the centre—Gabriel.

  Damn smack on the rope, riding it, his hand outstretched as ever, expecting me. The wind at a pitch, the rope swaying, and Gabriel, his wings folded flat against his back tight as a fingernail, or outspread partly, never as large as you’d think and light and densely etched, each feather sometimes moving like a living thing as he unfolds, unfolds.

  I walked the first rope because I needed to overcome fear, because the things you fear control you, and the second rope—ten stories higher—to prove my resolve. Every rope has been higher, longer, more inhabited by height and I won’t lie, I can no longer tell the difference between love and fear.

  I know I’m always afraid that this will be the last rope my nerves can handle, or that I’m now more enslaved by the need to triumph over fear than I was by fear itself. It’s possible, always possible.

  I suspect my fear is no longer pure.

  The third walk—at a height of roughly 500 feet—was the first time I saw a figure on my rope, turned and waiting for me.

  I stood on the windowsill, my fingers backed against a pane of glass, trying to place him, who he was and why he was there. I already knew enough to look only out—out, never down—so my eyes were trapped by him and I thought at first it would be impossible to step out, that two people on the rope would be a disaster, that I would force him down or it would be—at the least—a breach of etiquette I knew nothing about, because every rope I had stepped on I stepped on alone.

  It was the flutter at his back that decided me, the sly protrusion of his flexing wing. My foot stepped out, the arch of it fisted on the rope, holding it like a hand grasp, so that when the rope swayed I held on to it with my foot. The trick is not to fight it; the trick is to believe that air is the floor of your life.

  Gabriel was naked. How was it ever possible to pretend angels would be clothed? Are birds? How would a hummingbird fly in a gauzy white gown?

  The naked, winged man on the rope had a casual air. He stood at ease, with grace and friendliness, with interest. I moved slowly on the rope.

  There was a slight wind and I was still relatively new to ropes then. I was grateful in a way to keep my eyes on him. When I first stepped out I saw the buildings behind him, framing him, but as I reached him the space around him freed up, so there was air. All ropes seem
curved that way, their centres independent of their moorings, as if the bridge a rope makes is itself the impossible country, Oz in the sky.

  Gabriel, that first time, let me approach without saying a word. Surprises are so much more impressive in silence. He had dark, straight heavy hair parted in the center, falling down to the point where his jawbone turned up to his ear. His eyes were brown and direct, not quite almond-shaped, and his nose was almost Indian, strong and sharp. There was no crease anywhere on his face, nor on his body, which was muscular, narrow at the hips and dark in the loins. His feet were beautifully formed, resting almost without impression on the rope.

  The wing that had flexed when I first saw him opened and I caught a faint ripple of muscles on his shoulder as it did. The wing opened straight out, the way a sparrow’s did, without the bend that artists like to put in it. It was paler than his skin when open—a beige colour faintly streaked with cream. The feathers were small and it was possible when looking at the wing as a whole to think it resembled a shell, changing at the edges into transparency. I was soon close enough to see the way each feather topped the one in front of it and how the skin thickened where the wing sloped into his shoulder. There it was the consistency of muscle with a thin opaque covering. When I looked at the feathers I wanted to stroke them lightly; when I looked at the wing I wanted to fly.

  Tremors fluttered the wing in waves, as if he were idly clenching and unclenching muscles, and it appeared to me that each feather was separately operated and intricately managed.

  He smiled as I looked at him, waiting for my study of his wings to end. Then he held his hand out to me, also beautifully extended, a hand without callus or scar, its fingers shaped to a roundness at the tip. I refused his hand; I had no doubt that his touch would be unnerving.