Karen thought that it was not a goal he hoped fervently to reach. She thought that he did not like people enough for it, or that he did not know himself well enough for it, did not feel that he had enough of substance to say.
He had told her as much. He had been half drunk and in a confessional mood: "Who am I to do calculations about other people?" he had asked. "I write about people and that means I write about myself. But when I look inward I don’t see anything. Not myself. Not the reflection of myself. I see the dark." Then he had shrugged and said that he was babbling and quickly got onto another subject.
He read to her now and again from his own books. He seemed to enjoy it and she did not discourage him because he was a good reader—his voice full and deep and dramatic, almost Burtonesque. It was as if he were putting on a show for her, as if he were drawing, from somewhere deep within himself, living and breathing characters which, to that point, had existed only on paper.
His characters were often unlikable, seedy; he referred to them as "ne’er-do-wells," and explained that he had sympathy for them, even if many of his readers did not. It was, in large part, these characters which had kept him from gaining more popularity as a writer. "You know what these people are?" he once said to Karen, in his own defense. "These are the people that all of us want to be, under the skin. The properly dressed and courteous assholes that populate the world? My people live inside those people. You want to know why? Because from the moment we’re born we realize, in our heart of hearts, that other people are in competition with us for survival. We act courteously, we dress properly, we smile, we say ‘Have a nice day,’ but it’s all just to keep them at bay, to keep them—my people, the people inside us, the naturalness inside us—from gobbling us up.
He liked most to read from his first novel, Greed, the story of a love affair that was doomed because the people involved had let themselves become "too civilized . . . too polite," until, at last, the passion within them was gone and they realized it, mutually, and tried to correct it, at last, in an orgy of regret and violence. They had sacrificed their "real and gritty and passionate and natural" humanness for the sake of civility, out of selfloathing and fear, and in an effort to regain that humanness they self-destructed.
"‘Beverly looked at Stephen,’ " he read, " ‘and she saw a monster, something with a huge, misshapen head and bulbous eyes and a long, greedy tongue. She loved what she saw. This was her Stephen, and she knew that he was seeing her the same way, for the first time, and that he loved what he was seeing, too. Loved every repulsive, slavering, greedy, human part of her.
"‘Two monsters fucking. It was real, it was good, it would last.’ "
And although these monsters were present only at the conclusion of his first novel, they filled all the pages of his succeeding novels, and they doomed him to a career that seemed always on the verge of getting started.
~ * ~
Karen decided she would like some coffee. She went into the small kitchen that adjoined the living room and put some water on to boil.
~ * ~
The dust which had gathered itself together and had become a man left the room and went out into the countryside. It was the beginning of a search. The man had no idea what he was searching for, only that he needed to search, and so he started.
There was light, and the countryside was still. There were smells in the air, and the man sniffed them and smiled because they were reminiscent, though he could not think what they were reminiscent of.
He was puzzled a little by the tug on him from above, by the fact that as he walked through the fields he could feel no pressure on the soles of his bare feet, only the softness of the earth beneath him and the slight touch and tickle of the grasses.
He was unaware of his nakedness because he had no idea that he should be clothed.
Eventually he came up over a rise and saw houses clustered together.
As he watched, people came out of the houses and ran to him smiling, and took him back to the cluster of houses, where he was clothed by many hands, welcomed, and caressed.
He had a meal. It too was reminiscent, though again he could not think what it was reminiscent of.
After the meal, darkness came and the people stayed inside their houses and they slept.
The man slept, too.
He dreamt of people he did not recognize.
He heard their names, but he did not know what the names meant.
He heard them talk, but did not recognize their voices.
He felt sadness.
When he woke, he had no recollection of the dream.
NINE
David was being held for observation in the psychiatric wing of Syracuse General Hospital. He’d been told it was standard procedure in cases of attempted suicide, and he hadn’t argued with it. "Yes, you’re right, of course," he said, which, calculatedly, seemed reasonable, because he wanted very much to seem reasonable, wanted very much to avoid being shut away in a locked ward.
He was not put in a locked ward. He assumed an appearance of being puzzled and remorseful at his "attempt at self-destruction," and so he was put in a room that was down a corridor which was looked after by a tall, middle-aged and very officious-looking RN who sat stiffly behind a desk.
There was a man sharing the room with David. The man was self-committed. He was depressed, and lonely, and was afraid of what he might do to himself. He talked to David quite a lot, and the idea David got was that the man not only despised his past, but lived in it, too. Hence his despair.
"So many faces, David," the man said. "So many names and faces and smells, and they all get crowded into here"—he pointed to his temple—"and they make me crazy."
David said, "I’m sorry," because it was clear that the man was in misery. The man was very thin because, he explained, food had not interested him in a long time; and his huge hazel eyes carried a constant look of sadness, though he smiled often. It was clearly a nervous smile.
The man explained, "There are aunts, uncles, cousins, David, and acquaintances, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. They all come and go in here." He pointed again at his head. "And even cats and dogs. Gerbils, too. And a parakeet who has no name. I remember them all. All of them, David. They’re in here." He pointed. "They’re gobbling away in here toward the inside of my skull and one of these days they’re going to burst out."
David said again, "I’m sorry," but he had problems and needs of his own, and they were not being approached here, in the psychiatric wing of Syracuse General Hospital.
"Now there’s you, too, David. David. You’re in there with some other Davids. Half a dozen, I think. Like David Attenborough, the actor. He’s in there, of course, because he was a part of my life—"
"Oh?"
"Well, yes, I saw him in the theaters, didn’t I? And there’s David, of David and Goliath—to say nothing of Goliath—and David O. Selznic, and David . . . David Ahl, who was my brother-in-law’s friend, and David Letterman, and now you, too. David."
"It sounds like quite a crowd," David said, and regretted the statement immediately, because he thought it sounded facetious, though it was merely the most apropos observation he could make at that moment.
But the man clearly did not consider the remark facetious. He gave David his nervous smile, his eyes sparkled a grim light; he said, "And I don’t like crowds, David."
~ * ~
David tried to leave the ward that night.
He got into his clothes, left his room at a bit past eight, and walked quickly down the corridor toward the nurses’ station, eyes on the nurse all the while. He smiled, nodded, was aware that she was watching him. She said, as he passed her desk, "Please don’t leave us just yet, Mr. Case."
He stopped and pointed toward the closed glass doors. "I was going out for a bit. It’s okay."
She shook her head. "No. I’m sorry. Please return to your room." He saw that she had her finger on a button on her desk.
"Orderlies?" he asked.
&nb
sp; She nodded a little. David wasn’t sure she was answering him or whether the nod was a nervous gesture. She said, "Please return to your room."
He looked for a long moment at the closed doors.
"Yes," the nurse said. "You could run."
He said, "I’m not going to do that. I don’t need to do that." And he went back to his room.
~ * ~
In Anne’s house, a breeze pushed in through the same window the martins had used and coaxed the pinkish white petals from a small flowering plant that had dehydrated.
In the basement of the house, the family of dormice set itself up in a corner far from the gas leak which had given the mother dormouse so much anguish.
At a little before nine, a cat got into the house through the open window. The cat was large and friendly and confused; earlier in the day, his owners had let him off on a country road not far off, then, with tearful eyes, had watched as their pet watched them drive away.
The cat’s name was Jackson. His owners had thought it was an interesting cat name, one not on a list they had seen in a book about cats; it was a list of overused cat names, and Jackson’s owners were intent upon being unique.
But Jackson was not unique. He was tired and hungry and confused. And he didn’t know it, but no one would ever call him "Jackson" again.
~ * ~
Karen Duffy said to Christian Grieg, "I try to figure you out sometimes."
Christian said, "I didn’t know I needed figuring out."
Karen nodded. "You do." A pause. "I need to figure you out." She smiled. She was aware that it was attractive and quietly sexual. "I guess I don’t know if you mean well, Christian."
He smiled. It was designed to be understanding and forgiving. "You mean with you?" he said.
"With me?" she asked. "Our relationship?" She paused. "In a way. But that’s not all of it—I was thinking," she hurried on, "when you were gone yesterday and I was waiting for you that I don’t . . . know you very well." It was a gentle lie. She didn’t know how to say to him, I think you’ve changed in the last couple of months, Christian. I want to talk about it.
"It’s good that you don’t know me very well," he said.
She thought a moment. "Yes. It’s good. I see what you’re saying. But we don’t have a relationship, per se. We know each other."
"I’ve always wanted a relationship with you, Karen."
She said nothing for a moment. If what he was saying was true, it was the first inkling she’d had of it. She said, "I wasn’t aware of that."
"Weren’t you?"
"No."
"You should have been. I was obvious about it.”
“Then I was pretty dense, Christian. I’m sorry.”
“That sounds like a brush-off."
She shook her head. "It isn’t." She was confused. "I don’t know what I want from you, Christian." She paused. "Because I really don’t know you. I mean that." She wanted to add, Especially lately, but he said: "I have secrets. We all have secrets."
"I wasn’t talking about that, Christian." There had been a tinge of anger in his voice and it concerned her. "I don’t want to know your secrets." She was pleading with him and she wasn’t sure why. "I want to know you, Christian."
He smiled; it came and went as swiftly as a heartbeat, but she knew it was a smile that she was not meant to see.
"Something’s funny?" she said.
"Nothing’s funny, Karen." He shook his head slightly. "Why?"
"Because you smiled."
"I didn’t smile." Again he shook his head. "I’m sure I didn’t smile." He looked upset.
Karen said, "I didn’t mean anything by it, Christian. It was an observation. I thought you smiled." He shook his head. "No. I didn’t. I know when I smile."
"I’m sorry," Karen said.
~ * ~
A week after he was admitted to the psychiatric unit of Syracuse General Hospital, David was transferred to the intensive care wing; he was suffering from what appeared to be a drug-related relapse. He had slipped into unconsciousness, come back, slipped away again. Now, three hours after his initial unconsciousness, the monitor showing his brain function indicated that he was in a light coma.
David’s doctor telephoned Laude Pharmaceuticals, talked with Kay Fortunato—David’s lab assistant—told her the situation, and requested that she send him the results of all the company’s research into A2d-40, including the results of human testing.
"There has never been any human testing," Kay told him.
"Never?" the doctor asked incredulously.
Kay said, "It was noted in the material I sent you when David was admitted a week ago."
"I haven’t familiarized myself with that material."
"Doctor, I know that it arrived."
"Yes. It has. I’ve seen it, actually. I haven’t studied it." He paused. "Miss Fortunato, if there has been no human testing then we’ve got a hell of a problem here."
~ * ~
Detective Fred Collins was inside Anne’s house and he was spooked. Not just because it was a place where a murder had happened, but because he could so strongly sense Anne in it. Her personality. Her spirit.
He told himself that he did not believe in such things, that, actually, he should not believe in such things, because he had been in too many places where a murder had been committed and he was therefore jaded and professional. He had sensed before what he sensed here—spirit, personality, the leftovers of a person’s existence—but it had always been fleeting and weak. It was not fleeting and weak, now.
Strangely, there seemed to be precious few leftovers of Anne Case here, although her house was full of furniture, books, paintings, art prints. Most of it seemed too much like window dressing—necessary accoutrements of a big house—that had little to do with the private and doomed personality that had lived inside it. There was little that was singularly reflective of Anne Case. There was a vase with flowers. The flower petals were on the floor and they were gray. (Collins smiled thinly at that. It was such a grim allegory.) On a table in the parlor there was a photograph of Anne—it was a small and oblong photograph that looked as though it had been cropped from a larger photograph. Collins had spent many minutes looking at it, but at last the face that smiled dimly back at him had told him little. It whispered of sensitivity and pain, but her life had screamed of it.
He had no reason for being in Anne Case’s house today other than that he was intrigued by her. He thought that he might, when she was alive, have found good reason to love her.
~ * ~
It is several years earlier, the day after David’s near drowning, and Anne—riding in Christian’s car—has made the 120-mile trip from Batavia to the hospital in Syracuse, where David is recuperating nicely.
The trip has been hell for Anne. It’s the first time in years that she’s left her big, comfortable house for so protracted a time and when she arrives at the hospital, she feels ill—her stomach’s churning, she’s dizzy, seeing double.
Christian helps her from the car and, despite her nausea, she hurries into the hospital, into the peace and security of finite spaces and unmoving walls.
And when she goes into David’s private room, he gets shakily from his bed and hugs her.
The room is empty, except for the two of them. Christian has elected to wait in the lobby.
David whispers, "Anne, I went over."
She says nothing, though he assumes she’s heard him.
"I went over to the other side, Anne," he whispers.
She nods. He can’t tell the meaning of the nod. He moves back from her, holds her slim shoulders in his hands. He finds that he’s smiling giddily. "You heard me, Anne?"
She nods, smiles too, and he’s uncertain what kind of smile it is—a patient smile, a smile of assent, a smile of acceptance and belief. She’s always been good at hiding her moods, when she wants, even from him.
David is still smiling giddily. He doesn’t want to. He senses that, somehow, it’s making his sis
ter uncomfortable.
He sighs, forces his smile down. "Did I say thank you, Anne? For coming here?"
She looks silently at him for a few seconds. Then she tells him, her eyes still on his, "Let’s not talk about what happened to you, David. It’s . . . painful. Do you understand?"
He says nothing for a moment. He’s not sure he understands. Is she talking about the accident itself, or about the fact that he went over to the other side? He wants her to explain. But he says, "Yes, I think so."
She shakes her head, smiling tearfully. "No," she says. "I doubt that you do." She nods at the bed. "Let’s sit down, okay?"
"Okay," he says, and they sit together on the hospital bed, their bodies turned obliquely toward each other, hands clasped.
"Christian told me what happened to you, David." She takes a breath. "He told me what you believe happened to you."
"Do you doubt it, Anne?"
She shakes her head earnestly and looks down at their clasped hands. "No. God no!" She squeezes his hands. "I’ve thought quite often about dying." She pauses. "And about . . . going over." She looks up at him; she’s still smiling tearfully. "We’ve talked about it, haven’t we?" It’s a rhetorical question. He doesn’t answer. She continues, "And it’s always been so . . . abstract." She pauses again. She touches his face tenderly. "Oh, David, you’re all right, aren’t you? They told me you were . . . under the water for a long time—"
He nods quickly. "Yes. I’m all right. The doctor says there should be no lasting effects."
"He said the same thing to me. I wanted to hear it from you, though. Doctors lie. They try to be kind, and they lie." She looks away, lets go of his hands. David wants to ask her what’s troubling her, but says nothing. He knows that she’ll tell him, in time.
She stands, goes to the window. The curtains are drawn. She reaches tentatively, hesitates, parts the curtain a little. Daylight shines on part of her face. She lets the curtain go, turns her head, looks at David. "Tell me what you saw there, David. On the other side."
He’s confused by the question. He doesn’t know where to begin, doesn’t know where she wants him to begin. He says nothing, tries to formulate an answer, and while he’s silent, Anne continues, "Is it a very big place? Is there lots of sky, David? Is there lots of space?"
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