Laughing Man

by Wright, T. M.

  "My God!" breathed Patricia David.

  "Mr. Erthmun," said the doctor who had been standing by the bedside with her; the doctor was shaking Jack, now, trying to rouse him. "Wake up, Mr. Erthmun! Wake up!"

  "Jack?" Patricia whispered.

  The young woman whose name was Greta felt delicious, real, alive. She felt as if she could jump from her fifth-floor window, land unscathed in the park, and then run for hours and hours without losing her breath. She thought that she had once actually done just that sort of thing, but in a different place. Not her childhood home in Pennsylvania, but some other home. She tried to remember it. She saw trees and hills in her mind's eye, and the name of the place itself tickled and teased her memory but stayed just out of reach.

  Five stories below, at Columbus Circle, she could see that some of the police cars were leaving. She thought again that she was somehow responsible for what they had been doing in the park, but when she tried to recall exactly how she could have been responsible, she got only a quick sense of desperation, then a feeling of orgasmic satisfaction. It was very stimulating, so she tried to tweak the memory often as she sat at her window. If she had cared to look, she would have seen her dim reflection in the window glass, would have seen her quivering smile come and go as if in time with her inhales and exhales. And, not for the first time, she would have wondered just what sort of creature she was.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Ten thousand living things had made a home of the brownstone on West 161st Street. Jumping spiders, silverfish, German brown cockroaches, termites, fleas, mice, rats, lice. And two human beings removed from their place in society by unfortunate events.

  There was another in the brownstone, too. She had been displaced and destroyed by humans in times past, and then had been remade the same as she had been, much the way the earth remakes a carrot, or a head of lettuce, or a burying beetle.

  The young homeless woman said that she was depressed, and her husband said that he was depressed, too, but who could blame them? Christ, here they were, in a shitty abandoned brownstone in a shitty part of New York City, on a shitty day when they couldn't go anywhere even if they had wanted to, and it was goddamned cold, besides, and they were both goddamned hungry—Gee, wouldn't a steak be nice . . .

  "Enough!" cried the young woman.

  "Sorry," said her husband.

  "Enough," she said again, more quietly, with resolve. "I have had enough. I'm not depressed, or sad, or any of that shit. I have just had enough!"

  "I understand."

  "I don't want you to understand. I don't want anything. I don't want a steak, or a TV, or a fucking bus ticket to South Carolina, or any of that stuff. I don't even want a bed to sleep in, or a nice pillow, or a fucking pet hamster! None of that stuff means anything because you lose it all anyway. It all gets taken away from you. You try to hold on to it, and it all gets taken away. Jesus!—I have just had enough!"

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  She didn't look at him. It would have been difficult for him to see her if she had looked at him, because the light had grown very dim in the room. Its two tall windows had been boarded over with plywood, and the only light was a rectangle of soft, blue-green phosphorescence at the doorway; this was light that the storm had let in from the city around them, and it was so dim that they could not see it unless they looked obliquely at it, the same way they might have seen a very dim star on a clear night.

  "I don't like you feeling this way," the young man said.

  His wife said nothing.

  "Things will work out, you'll see. We'll just stay here tonight, and tomorrow we'll go and . . . hell, we can get some day jobs, and we can stay here for a couple of nights, if we need to, as long as we're trying to save money—"

  "Shut up!" whispered the young woman.

  "Yeah, sure, I'm sorry," said the young man.

  He put his arm around her. She did not protest this, nor did she lean into him for warmth, or affection. He said, "Don't give up."

  But she said nothing.

  The other creatures sharing the brownstone with them were not interested in much besides warmth, except for the termites who, en masse, generated their own heat within the wood in the house as they made an extended meal of the place. The cockroaches congregated in another part of the building, where there was plenty to eat, and the jumping spiders—there were four of them in the house—spent their time huddled in corners, legs tight around their little dark bodies, their senses alert to the errant fly or spider mite or flea. It was a brutal existence for everything in the house. Lives ended and lives began cyclically, just as in the universe beyond the house, in the earth itself, in the plant life that sprang from the earth, in the insects that fed on the plant life, and in the birds that fed on the insects.

  "Listen," said the young man. "I know you don't want me to talk to you. I know you want me to shut up. But is it all right if I just . . . talk? You don't have to listen."

  His wife said nothing. She was tense under his arm. He could feel her breathing, though the noises of the storm covered the sounds of her breathing.

  "Okay," said the young man. "I'll talk." And he did. He kept his eyes on her and he talked to her for a long, long while. He told her about how he was going to get them out of their crummy situation. He told her that he was going to go back to college and get a teaching certificate and get a job at a high school. He told her that he'd teach shop, or gym, and then he'd get tenured, so they couldn't fire him, which would mean that their future would be pretty secure, and they could have kids.

  And when he stopped talking for a moment, and looked away from her—his eyes had adjusted to the dim light and he could see her profile; it was gray against the darkness—and looked at the blue-green phosphorescence that was the doorway, he saw that someone was standing in it, hunched over, hands on the doorjamb, legs wide.

  And he screamed.

  Erthmun said, "I don't know." He closed his eyes, looked as if he were in pain.

  The doctor said, "Mr. Erthmun, perhaps it's best if you sleep."

  "I've been asleep, damnit!" He opened his eyes. He sighed, looked at the doctor. "I've been asleep," he repeated. "I don't need to sleep." He closed his eyes again, opened them, looked first at Patricia, then at the doctor. "What is this place?" he asked.

  "You're in a hospital, Jack," Patricia told him. "You're suffering from hypothermia," the doctor said.

  "Hypothermia," Erthmun echoed.

  "You're going to be all right," Patricia told him. "You need to rest."

  "What is this place?" he asked again.

  "A hospital."

  "Hospital," Erthmun echoed. "Hypothermia." He closed his eyes, opened them, stared at the ceiling. "I dreamed," he whispered, as if to no one in particular. "I never dream. But I dreamed."

  "Mr. Erthmun, it was a nightmare," the doctor said. "But you're awake now."

  "I don't have nightmares," Erthmun said. "I don't dream."

  "We all dream," said the doctor.

  "I don't know," said Erthmun, and his eyes were still on the ceiling.

  "What don't you know, Jack?" Patricia asked. He said nothing.

  "Jack?" she coaxed.

  He said nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  And when he was done screaming, the young homeless man saw that the thing standing in the doorway had vanished, and he could feel that his wife was clinging to him so tightly that it hurt.

  After several minutes, he said, "I saw something."

  His wife said nothing. She still clung to him. He put his hand comfortingly on hers. "I saw something," he repeated. "I screamed because I saw something." He played back the moment, saw again in his mind's eye the thing standing in the rectangle of soft blue-green phosphorescence that was the doorway. He continued. "I thought I saw something." He nodded to indicate the doorway. "There." He paused. "But maybe I didn't." He patted his wife's hand, thought it was a stupid gesture under the circumstances, and said, "It's all right. Ther
e's no one in the house but us. How would they get in? They couldn't get in." He paused. "We're the only ones here." His wife clung silently to him.

  Greta liked chocolate. She thought that she had always liked chocolate. She thought she remembered stuffing gobs of it in her mouth when she was a child and telling her mother—who she remembered had looked on with an odd mixture of horror and rebuke—"It's better than mud," which she thought made her mother's look of horror and rebuke become one of perplexity.

  Greta was eating chocolate now. It wasn't cheap chocolate. It wasn't mud. It wasn't Hershey's, or Nestle's Crunch. It was lovely chocolate. Godiva. Perugina. Chocolate that was sex and sensuality. Chocolate that was life itself. Chocolate that filled her soul. Chocolate that made her moist, and made her eyes close, and made her senses quiver.

  Greta was surprised at this new creature that had emerged from within the Greta she had known for so long. And she was delighted, too. This Greta would not sit longingly for hours at her window and do nothing. This Greta had enough life in her to do what that other Greta was afraid to do.

  Breathe!

  Be!

  The doctor said to Patricia David, "He clearly is experiencing some disorientation. It's not unusual in cases of hypothermia. But he's no longer in any danger. I'd say it was fortunate that you got him here as soon as you did; otherwise this whole scenario might have played out very differently."

  Erthmun was asleep. He was on his back and he was breathing very lightly. Patricia had supposed that he was a man who snored. But he didn't snore. He slept as silently as stone.

  Patricia said, "So you think he'll be able to go home in a day or two?"

  "There's no reason that he can't go home tomorrow," the doctor said.

  "Tomorrow? That's good."

  "We'll just keep him here tonight as a precautionary measure, and he can go home tomorrow."

  In the brownstone on West 161st Street, the young homeless man felt trapped by the storm, by his homelessness, and by the sudden, silent, and motionless panic of his wife. He felt trapped, too, by the thing that had appeared so briefly, and now, he knew, waited for him somewhere beyond the tall rectangle of soft, blue-green phosphorescence that was the doorway.

  He said to his wife, "C'mon, babe, we've got to get out." He had said the same words to her a half-dozen times in the past fifteen minutes, but with no response. She continued clinging to him; she was still hurting his arm with her incredibly strong grip, and he imagined that he'd have finger-shaped bruises on that arm before long.

  He said now, "What are we going to do, babe?"

  She said nothing.

  "If we don't get out of here, this is it," he said. Silence.

  Beyond the house, the storm droned on. He thought it sounded like laughter.

  Chapter Thirty

  These weren't dreams. How could they be dreams? He could smell the tangy odor of wet earth, freshly washed clothes, his father's aftershave, a breakfast just eaten.

  How could this be a dream? Because his mother was here, too, and his sisters, and his house, although it existed only as a dark, windowless box at the horizon, and the golden grasses swaying like flowers, and the insects that tried to get out of his way—the crickets, the mantises, the gaily colored garden spiders retreating deep into their webs.

  And the others.

  Those who shadowed him, and ran with him, who made the most of their time, just as he was doing, who made the most of what the earth had given them, just as he was doing.

  His mother would have been amazed if she had seen him run like this. His father, too. And his sisters. All amazed. Look at that little fireplug run! they would have said. Who would have known he could run like that?

  Who?

  Only the others.

  The ones who shadowed him and ran with him and mimicked his laughter, and felt his joy.

  They were the only ones who existed here. There were no murder victims in this place, in these high hills and golden fields. There were no men with wounds and mouths agape. There were no women who had been made to look foolish.

  There was only the dark, windowless box that was his house, far off, at the horizon. Only the golden grasses. Only the others.

  And him.

  And the other child. The one he had found playing with a doll at a stream far from the house; the one who told him her name was Greta, and whom he had found spooning mud into the mouth of her doll.

  "Why are you doing that?" he asked.

  "Doing that?" echoed the girl. "It's chocolate. I like chocolate. My doll likes chocolate."

  "I like chocolate, too," he said.

  "Chocolate, too," she echoed. "And do you like my doll's eyes?"

  "Doll's eyes," he said, and looked closely at it; it was a naked, plastic doll—its eyes had been plucked out and crumpled bright green paper put in their place.

  He asked, "Why'd you do that?"

  "Do that?" she echoed. "I like green. Don't you like green? I like chocolate and I like things that are green."

  "I like green," he said.

  "I like green," she echoed.

  "This is what I'm going to do, babe," said the young homeless man to his wife. "I'm going to leave you here"— she clung even more tightly to him—"I'm going to leave you here, and I'm going to go just over there"—he nodded at the doorway—"and then I'll come right back." She continued clinging to him. He took hold of her hand, tried to pry her fingers free. He pleaded, "You've got to let go of me, babe." He pulled hard on her fingers, hoped he wasn't hurting her, got her hand free for a moment, let go of it; she grabbed his arm again, even tighter.

  "Babe," he said, "this is stupid. We don't want to die here, do we?"

  Nothing.

  "Do we?" he said again.

  Nothing.

  He lurched away from her, suddenly. It was for her own good, he told himself. At this point, she was her own worst enemy. Better a little pain now than death later.

  He stood unsteadily, because his legs had gone to sleep, wobbled a bit, looked down at her. She was a yellowish mass near his feet. He thought she was looking up at him. "I'm going over there," he said, and moved his arm a little to indicate the doorway.

  She said nothing.

  "Okay?" he said.

  Nothing.

  He thought that he needed a weapon. But what was there? The room was empty.

  Something in the closet, maybe. Where was it? He looked about. He saw a dark rectangle against the far wall. Surely that was the closet door.

  "I'm going over there," he said. "I'm going to go and look in the closet."

  "No," she whispered.

  He was happy that she'd spoken at last. "I have to," he said.

  "Why?" she said.

  "I need some kind of weapon. I have to look in the closet."

  "Don't!" she said.

  "I have to," he said again. He thought that he was becoming angry with her.

  She said nothing.

  He crossed slowly to the dark rectangle he supposed was the closet door. He hoped that as he drew closer to it, he would be able to see it better. But that didn't happen. It was in a darker area of the room, well away from the bedroom door and the soft blue-green phosphorescence, and as he drew closer, the dark rectangle merely became darker, and monolithic. When he was close to it, he reached into the area where the doorknob should have been. His fingers touched cold wood. He lowered his hand a little. His fingers touched colder metal. He probed the metal, found a small hole in it, whispered, "Shit." No doorknob.

  "Don't!" he heard from behind him.

  "I have to," he said yet again.

  "Don't!" he heard.

  "It's all right, babe," he said.

  "Don't!" he heard.

  He began to speak, and heard, from the middle of the dark room, in his own voice, "It's all right, babe." He whirled about.

  He saw the dark oval of a face near his, the darker ovals of eyes on him, the oval of a mouth wide open.

  Chapter Thirty-one


  Then it was gone. And he saw that his wife was standing between him and the doorway.

  She said, her voice shaking and weak, "What was it?"

  He said nothing. He had backed reflexively away and now was standing with his rear end to the closet door and his legs quivering. He thought that he had peed his pants.

  "What was it?" his wife said again. "Dammit, what was that thing?" Her voice had become stronger, firmer.

  The young man said, "I . . . don't know."

  "You don't know?" she shrieked. "You don't fucking know?" She came quickly forward. "For Christ's sake, why don't you know? Why in the hell don't you know?" She was standing directly in front of him now. "You bring me here, you bring me here to this goddamned place and you don't fucking know what lives here? That's fucking stupid! You're fucking stupid!" She put her hands flat on his chest and pushed against him, but he went nowhere because he was standing against the closet door. She shrieked at him, "I'm going to die here, for Christ's sake, and you don't know why? Why don't you know, why don't you know?" She pummeled his chest with her fists. "It's up to you to know! You're my husband, you have to know! You have to know!"

  He let her pummel him. She wasn't hurting him much, and he thought he deserved whatever pain she could inflict. Because she was going to die, it was obvious. And so was he. What could they do about it? They were trapped, by the storm, by their homelessness, by the thing that shared this place with them, by hunger.