“It’s harder than it looks,” I said.
“Show me.”
“You make your mouth into an O, then push the smoke out with your tongue. Like this.” I blew several rings; one encircled her right breast; the other veered away and bounced off her elbow.
The light seemed to shade a little from her face, her eyes faded. Like somebody had switched channels. She was there with me, but somewhere else, too.
The door hissed and snapped open. The conductor made his way down the aisle toward us. He stopped a few rows ahead, picked the ticket from the slot overhead, read it. “Toledo,” he said. “Five minutes.” No response. “Toledo,” he repeated a little louder. Finally, he reached down and ruffled a shoulder. “Toledo,” he said again. “Five minutes.” A body stirred, sat up. “OK,” a male voice blurted. Two arms shot up in the air, followed by a loud grunt. The conductor continued, stopping here and there to check tickets, found another Toledo passenger, across from us, a woman, who thanked him and clicked on her reading light. She glanced over at us. Old as my mother, with glasses hanging on a string around her neck, brownish hair loosely curled.
I can see her now. Narrow eyes a mixture of curiosity and concern. She could have made herself known to us and put a stop to it.
She scooched to the aisle seat. “Where are you kids going?” she asked pleasantly.
Neither of us responded. “Chicago?” she asked. She slipped her glasses up on her nose and glanced at her watch.
The girl leaned forward a little. “Yes,” she said. “You?’
“Here, Toledo. Lived my whole life here. Raised a family. My husband died five years ago, and I live alone now. All of my kids moved on, to the West. Montana, California.”
“That’s too bad,” the girl said.
“I see them once a year. I have one daughter who calls every Sunday. They didn’t like their father very much. I taught second grade for thirty-five years.”
The girl glanced at me. Raised her eyebrows. The woman flicked on the light over the aisle seat. It was like an operating room.
“My students were my real kids,” the woman continued. “Didn’t really need any of my own. Life would have been a lot simpler.”
The woman sat back. I glanced down at the girl’s breasts, to see if they changed shape when she leaned forward. I cupped one, felt the soft weight as it molded into my hand.
A true moment of random harmony for the boy, I think to myself.
WHEN I WROTE the essays on the philosophy of violence, I included a final piece on the notion of peak experiences, which I called the theory of random harmony. The theory is based on the statistical concept of chance. The underpinning is that there is no underlying scheme or order to the universe. We construct moral order, but there is really nothing there except randomly spinning molecules, bouncing aimlessly around, that will—and here is the key—on occasion line up purely by chance to construct or create a moment of pure harmony or beauty. It happens as a matter of statistics; you can’t seek it out, you can’t make it happen. Thus, Chopin and Gaudi are statistical emanations. They are bound to show up sooner or later. Psychologist Maslow allowed that each individual had two or three such experiences in a lifetime; where everything worked the way you always wanted it to; every piece slipped into place, and for an incredible moment, the sense of being fully awake cleared out every other feeling.
The theory is somewhat nihilistic in the sense that it denies the possibility of achieving a higher order; it denies good and evil, every theory of morality, things like karma and transcendence, peace through proximity to God. What an individual can do, however, is create an atmosphere that will lay the ground work for the moment of harmony, that will allow it to flower, to flow, to be realized to the fullest, when it does appear. Heads full of fear and anger and selfish desire and ego and regret or guilt are not good bedding grounds for the realization of a moment of random harmony. It could pass unnoticed, and probably does for most people, or be barely felt, and you will be the less for it, will miss one of life’s rare genuine pleasures.
Now I believe that the entire night on the train with the girl was itself a great extended moment of harmony, and there has been nothing like it before or since, and it was nothing I had deserved or earned. If I had gotten on the train two cars from the end, rather than the very last car, nothing. One of the risks, of course, and I wrote little about this, is that you would want to stay in that moment, and when you realized you couldn’t, you would descend into a well of despair.
The early lectures on the philosophy of violence were well received. The college appreciated the wide attention they brought. As they proceeded to man and nature, man as nature, essentially denying moral responsibility, the reactions grew quieter. Still, I received an offer from a prestigious university press to publish the talks in a book (which I declined). The theory of human motivation was presented as an invitation to people to try to understand why they did what they did, and as such stimulated much discussion and debate. That people acted in their own perceived self-interest was an established Darwinian fact.
There were quarrels with academics and religious leaders, of course, but they were well within bounds of reasonable discourse. The real trouble began later when I wrote The Professor, demonstrating the principles in actual form, albeit in the guise of a novel. Moments of random harmony, it seemed, were supposed to be ones of great insight and beauty, where you intuitively grasped the theory of relativity or dashed out The Stranger. That an experience of pure harmony could come from the taking of a life, from murder, was inconceivable. As crazy as the idea that Hitler could have been in a state of genuine rhapsody when he conceived of the Final Solution. That the Professor never renounced the pleasure that the deed brought him, that he seemed happy—more than happy, fulfilled—at the end of his life, as he wrote about so vividly in his memoir, was the problem; that he accepted the ultimate punishment as simply the last act in the play of his life, that he didn’t experience pain or remorse, or fear, all the things that go with moral judgment, was the problem. He behaved true to his nature; his moment of harmony left him in peace, which was to others simply intolerable. Peace comes from noble acts, to kind and caring souls, one woman argued at a forum. To suggest that a man could justifiably feel good after killing his wife was heresy. She had, of course, missed the point. As calmly as possible, I plucked the word “justifiably” from her sentence. I laid it on the podium. “There is your problem,” I said. The Professor didn’t feel he was justified or not justified. You are making that judgment. He simply acted in harmony with the deepest source of his being. And thus, I would go on, while such a moment of harmony is effervescent and unmaintainable, it will, if fully experienced, leave lasting and beneficial effects on the individual. And so the Professor died a happy man. Why does this anger us so? Why cannot we accept it? I would ask the audience. That was when the accusations started, the requests by some faculty members to the dean that I undergo a mental health evaluation. I could have easily passed with flying colors, but I refused, because I didn’t want some label like “mentally sound” placed on me.
I didn’t leave the campus out of fear or weakness; I could have fought and probably stayed on, and if my nature were different I would have. But when I thought of the feelings I would be entitled to in victory—triumph, vindication, superiority—I felt sure they would not bring any true or lasting sense of satisfaction or pleasure. I would necessarily in the heat of battle have been drawn into characterizing others and their statements. You’re wrong. I’m right. It would have been a step backward for me, and that feeling definitely would have been an unpleasant one. So I left on my own terms, in my own way, with full retirement and my integrity intact.
In the few years since, I’ve kept mainly to myself, except for an occasional appearance at a college forum, or being quoted in an article about the origins of violence after some ghastly crime. I have an occasional lunch with my few remaining friends on the faculty, and now and then I attempt a game
of golf at the city course. I swim every morning. But gradually my outside world has grown smaller, as my inward world has intensified.
In this state, I’ve sought to accept all the circumstances of my life as they were, including the fact that my mind would never settle out into a lasting, stable narrative. The lack of linear progression, the constant susceptibility to intrusion by vivid images, was simply the way my mental neurology worked, it was who I was, and that should have been that. But the shadow created by the lack of understanding became darker and more distinct after I left the college. I think the time I spent with the Professor’s memoir may have amplified the discomfort. The man pulled you all the way inside his mind and left you there. I watched him approach his end at peace and with an open heart. It became clear that peace for me would come only with clarity, or at least a version of events that would hold up from one day to the next. I came to believe, without acrimony or bitterness, that once I achieved that understanding there really would be nothing left to live for.
One needn’t be angry or depressed to let go of this life. It could be a moment of random harmony itself, and yes, you could argue that in this night here and now I might be trying to create such a moment of harmony, which would not be random and therefore not possible. Perhaps. I don’t claim consistency in thinking or the application of principles. But what have I to lose? Even without blessed clarity, Aurora will bring the dawn to this curvature of the earth.
I SEE FROM the new lines on the paper that I’ve been typing for some time now. Going on about my thinking, rather than the night on the train. I turn back to the task at hand. The girl, of course.
She had fallen quiet. Her exotic eyes had grown dark. Seconds expanded. I asked her if there was something the matter. If I’d done something wrong. She shook her head.
“I hate this time of year.”
“Christmas.”
“It’s more than that,” she said, turning to me. She hesitated, seemed to study me for a moment, then, “I want to tell you something.”
I wonder now if the whole night had been about this. From the moment she invited me to sit by her to her touching my hand in the bitter cold on the rear platform of the train.
I FEEL A sharp pain in my calf. I stand and try to kick it out, but it cramps up tight. I cry out in pain. I press my palms on the table and lean forward, until my knee snaps back. I massage the muscles. I see now that the boy on the train is beginning to remember something about what happened that afternoon at the lake. He’s being manipulated by the girl now, by her need, her breasts, and I suspect there’s little good that will come from that. Except, perhaps, the very thing I’ve been seeking, the very reason I’m here.
JOY
SUDDENLY THE HOUSE shakes, the windows rattle, in what appears to be a violent windstorm. The treetops are bending and swaying. A shutter slaps the side of the house. Over the lake the sky is still clear, the moon pulsing its waves of light into the turbulence, pulling my blood to the surface. I turn to the back window overlooking the drive, the porch where the box left by Sally sits, and there I see the trees are unmoving, still as grass. I step to the window, and my left leg crumples beneath me. I fall to the floor, on my side, and shout a curse. My head has banged into the edge of the chair, knocking the briefcase onto the floor beside me. I lie still.
The boy on the train, I see, is in the thrall of the girl, her need to reveal something of herself.
A FEW WHITE flakes hit the window, slid sideways on the glass, and then a few more.
The girl looked at me full on, her eyes reflecting struggle, aloneness. She turned, pressed a finger into the window. “You won’t like me,” she said.
“Try me.”
“I’ve never told anyone the whole story.”
She closed her eyes as if to gather herself.
“Smoke?” I finally asked.
A faint smile appeared.
I pulled out the pack from my pocket and extricated a weed. I put it between my lips, and she fired up the Zippo and leaned in to light it. I passed her the weed. She held it in between her thumb and forefinger, like a boy, and puffed. Her eyes watered as she handed it back to me.
“Let it cool down a little between drags,” I said.
People around us rustled and groaned in their sleep.
“Let’s move to the back,” she said, “where there’s nobody else.”
I nodded. I slipped the Luckies in my shirt pocket, glanced around for the Zippo. The girl stood, leaned over her seat, and took her purse and coat. She held the Zippo up for me to see, then slipped it in a side pocket of her skirt.
We passed the lady with the crying baby, and the old lady in the shawl who had swiped one of my Luckies, bent up in the seat without an apparent head. The last four rows were empty. The girl picked the second one from the back. She settled herself by the window, lay her coat over her lap.
I waited for her to speak. Time floated by.
I can hear her voice now, as she finally began to tell her story. Low, unwavering. She looks steadily at me, although I catch a moment of hesitation. I am caught in the sound and vision of her, barely able to hear the meaning in her words.
“I had a happy family, once,” she began. “There was my brother, Alex, my mom and dad, two cats and a golden retriever, and me. We lived in a large house in a suburb outside Chicago.”
She paused, rearranged her coat.
“My father was a lawyer. Weekday mornings we drove him to the commuter station, where he caught a train to Chicago, and then my mother drove us to school. She worked part-time as an interior decorator, but she was always there waiting for us at 3:15. Every Sunday night we practiced in the living room for our annual spring concert on the grounds overlooking the lake. Dad played the piano, I played the cello, and Alex played the clarinet. My mother sang. It was the way we started the new week. There was a feeling in the house like we were all in this together.
“Now, I can see things. My father worked constantly, and when he was home he stayed a lot in his office, where we weren’t allowed. He and Alex did things together, but I think Alex was closer to my mother. Still, we were happy. I dreamed of going to medical school, Alex wanted to be a pilot or a policeman. Our parents loved us. When I looked around at my friends’ families, I felt blessed.”
I felt it coming, yet I could not look away.
“Alex was a shy kid who wanted everyone to like him. He kept to himself a lot, but he had an incredible butterfly collection. He would bring it in my room and tell me stories about each one, where they came from, why they were this or that color or had a certain marking. He would hold them in the palm of his hand and blow to raise their wings as if they were flying.
“One day when we came out of school our dad’s car was parked at the curb, where our mother’s should have been. The back door was open, and our father was inside waiting. He didn’t say a thing on the ride. At home, he took us in the den, sat us down, and told us that our mother had left. He didn’t know where she had gone, but he didn’t think she was coming back. He handed us letters, sealed, with our names written on the front in her writing.
“Alex threw his letter on the floor and ran to his room. I opened my envelope. Inside was a single page. My mother wrote that she was very sorry to have to tell us she was leaving. She loved us more than anything, but she didn’t love my father anymore. One day we would understand. It would be better this way, if we went on with our lives, rather than being torn between two parents. She would love us to her last breath.
“Dad walked from the room. He let the dog and cats out, made himself a drink, and turned on the TV in the kitchen. I don’t think he ever spoke of our mother again. Her clothes and things were taken away the next day. Even her jewelry. He got us to school every day, but mostly he stayed in his office with the door closed.
“Alex never read his letter. He insisted that our mother was coming back. Or that she would send for him.”
I KEPT STONE silent. We haven’t got to the crux of t
he matter yet, I saw. It would play out in her head by itself, without interruption. The girl glanced out the window. In the reflection her eyes were strangely cool. Beyond the glass were shapes and shadows.
I FLIP THE light on and begin clacking away on the Underwood. The story is laid out minutely in stained-glass panels. Tap tap click clack bing! My fingers dart over the keys. I move the ribbon back to black; the letters are slightly faded, which is fine, things are on the verge of getting away from me. A warning flutters on the edge of the screen.
THE GIRL TURNED back to me. “Months went by,” she continued. “Our father barely spoke at all. I was the only one Alex would talk to. It got smothering. He slept on the floor by my bed, and he would pray out loud for our mother to come home. I would wake up to the sounds of him crying.
“One day two school counselors came to our house. They asked a bunch of questions. Alex wouldn’t answer them. Three days later Dad hired a live-in nanny, who cooked, cleaned, and looked after us. Then one night almost a year after our mother left, my father announced at the dinner table that in the fall I would be going away to prep school in the East. I wasn’t doing well; they had smaller classes. Dress codes. It was fine with me, actually. Anything was better than staying in that house. But poor Alex, this screwed him up even worse. He began screaming at me. One night after dinner, he set the papers on my father’s desk on fire.”
The train rocked back and forth, the soft lights dimmed, went out, then flickered back on.
“But I left for school anyway. I called home when I could, but Alex wouldn’t talk to me. When I came home a few months later for Christmas, things had changed. The nanny had moved into our father’s bedroom. Dad told us at dinner on Christmas Eve that the two of them were getting married in the spring. Alex spit a mouthful of food onto his plate.”
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