The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye

by Jonathan Lethem

  I felt my claim on her, and my claim on my own life—on Peter, the apartment, everything—slipping away. I had a sudden, desperate need to at least see Peter. I would cram two weeks’ worth of unfinished business into the next hour. I got up and went into his room, my head whirling.

  He turned from the computer when I appeared in his doorway. “Hey, Dad,” he said. “Look at this. I had an idea about Hell.”

  I went and sat down beside him. I was afraid to open my mouth, afraid of what would or wouldn’t come out. I wanted to put on a big show of fatherly affection but I couldn’t think of a damned thing to say.

  Peter pretended not to notice. “Look.” He’d punched up our entry for the starting point: the breakfast table, the horse, and the witch’s house. “You get up from the table,” he said. “You go off through the hedge in some direction, east, west, north, south. But there’s a direction you never go in. It’s so obvious. I can’t believe we never thought of it.”

  It wasn’t obvious to me, and I felt irritation. “Where? What direction?”

  “The witch’s house. You want breakfast, right? Why not just go in and get some? Why not find out what she’s doing in there?”

  The idea terrified me instantly. Me, a little boy, barging into the house of that beautiful, unapproachable woman. But Peter didn’t know about the emotional content of Hell. I’d kept that from him. “It’s an idea,” I conceded. “Uh, yeah. It’s an idea.”

  “It could be the key to the whole thing, Dad. Who knows. You’ve got to find out.”

  “The purloined letter,” I said. “Something so obvious, just sitting right out there in plain sight, but nobody notices . . .” I was drifting off into talking to myself again. I couldn’t stay focused on Peter. I was thinking about Maureen and her friend, and my thoughts were very, very murky.

  “Will you try?” said Peter. “Will you check it out?”

  “I might,” I snapped, suddenly angry. It was as though he were taunting me. But of course he didn’t know. I hadn’t said anything.

  He pretended he hadn’t heard the tension in my voice, and went on, bright-eyed. “It could be nothing, really. Just another stupid dead end. Or the door is locked or something . . .”

  “No, no,” I said, wanting to reassure him now. “It’s a good idea, Pete. An inspiration . . .”

  We drifted off into a mutually embarrassed silence. “Is Uncle Frank a lot like my grandfather?” asked Peter suddenly.

  “Well, no. Not really. Why?”

  “I dunno. He just seems so different from you. It’s hard for me to see how you might be related. I can’t imagine what your dad was like.”

  “Different how?”

  “Oh, you know, Dad. You’re so serious. Uncle Frank seems like he’s almost younger than you.”

  “Younger?”

  “He’s just sillier, that’s all. He says weird things. I can’t really explain, but it’s like he’s some kind of cartoon character, or somebody you’d tell me about in a story. He reminds me of somebody from Hell, like the robot maker, or—”

  That’s where Peter stopped, because I hit him.

  Hit him hard. Knocked him out of his chair and onto the floor.

  My anger had been spiraling while he spoke. I thought about Frank out covering Maureen’s ass, the two of them leaving the kid alone so she could squeeze in a quick lay, and that got me thinking about all the manipulative, unpleasant things Frank had done over the years. And now the kid was falling for it, falling for the image of the wacky, irresponsible, cartoon-character uncle who picked you up at school in the middle of the day, who seemed so much more charismatic than boring old Dad.

  I remembered falling for it myself, and I wondered if my father ever felt anything like the jealousy I felt now.

  Peter sat on the floor, whimpering. I held my hand up to my face and looked at it, astonished. Then I walked out of the room. I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t think of what to say.

  Besides, I was going to Hell.

  I was glad. It was where I belonged.

  18

  I sat at the table a long time, watching the horse quiver and twitch as the flies crawled over his lips, watching the other children giggle and whisper and play with their silverware, listening to the sound of insects in the woods beyond the hedge, smelling the smoke that trailed out of the witch’s chimney, quietly seething. I don’t think I ever hated my Hell as badly as I did now. Now that my other life, my real life, had become a Hell too.

  Eventually I got out of my seat. But I couldn’t bring myself to run for the hedge to the north, or in any direction, for that matter. I stood on the grass beside my chair, paralyzed by Peter’s suggestion. After a minute or so I took a first, tentative step across the grass, toward the witch’s hut. It seemed like a mile to the cobblestone steps at the door. I tried the handle; it turned easily. The room was dark. I stepped inside.

  The Happy Man was turned away from me, facing the table, his pants down around his ankles, his pale, hairy buttocks squeezed together. Splayed out on the table, her bare legs in the air, was the witch. The Happy Man had one hand over her mouth, the other on her breasts.

  “Oh, shit,” he said when he heard me come in. He stopped thrusting and hurriedly pulled up his pants. “What are you doing in here?” He turned away, left the witch scrambling to cover herself on the table. Despite my astonishment at finding Eagery in the hut, I managed to ogle her for a moment. She was beautiful.

  “Breakfast,” I got out. “I wanted breakfast.”

  “Oh, yeah?” The Happy Man didn’t sound playful. He was advancing on me fast. I tried to turn and leave, but he grabbed me and pinned me against the wall. “Breakfast is served,” he said. He lifted me by my belt and took me to the stove. I could feel its heat as I dangled there. He opened the door with his free hand. Inside there was a pie baking; it smelled wonderful. The breakfast we’d always hoped for. Eagery dropped me onto the open door.

  My hands and knees immediately burned. I heard myself pleading, but The Happy Man didn’t pay any attention; he began pushing the door closed, wedging me into the hot oven with the pie, battering at my dangling arms and legs until I pulled them in, then slamming the door closed and leaning on it with his full weight.

  I fell into the pie, and burning sugar stuck to my back. I think I screamed. Eagery kicked at the oven, jolting it off the floor, until I was silent. Eventually I died.

  Died back into my own life, of course. Peter was right. He’d discovered a shortcut.

  Lucky me.

  19

  I came back in the apartment this time, sitting alone in the living room, watching television. That’s how I spend a lot of my zombie hours, according to Maureen. It was midday, and I suspected I hadn’t been away long at all. I checked my watch. Sure enough, less than twenty-four hours had passed. It was the second day of the weekend; my shortest stay in Hell ever, by several days.

  I turned off the television and went into the kitchen to make myself some coffee. The house was empty. The day was pretty bright, and I suspected they’d gone out for a picnic or something up at the park. I had a few hours alone with my thoughts.

  Still, it wasn’t until I heard their car in the driveway that I had my big idea.

  I had the tube on again. That was part of it. It had something to do with not wanting to face them, too. Not knowing what to say to Maureen, or Peter. When I heard the car pull up I felt my tongue go numb in my mouth.

  By the time Maureen got her key in the door it was a fully hatched plan. I stared at the television as they came in, keeping my breath steady, trying not to meet their eyes. There was a moment of silence as Maureen checked me out and determined that I was still away, in Hell.

  Then the conversation picked up again, like I wasn’t even there.

  “—what’s he watching?”

  “That horrible cop thing. Peter, for God’s sake, turn it down. I don’t want to listen to that. Or change the channel—” To Frank: “He won’t notice. If he doesn’t l
ike it, he’ll just get up and go away. But he never does. I’ve seen him sit through hours and hours of Peter’s horror things . . .”

  I would have enjoyed proving her wrong, but I didn’t want to risk anything that would blow my cover. So I sat there while Peter flipped the dial, settling eventually on the news.

  The lead story was a minor quake in L.A., and like all good Californians they took the bait, crowded around me on the couch for a look at the damage: a couple of tilted cars on a patch of split pavement, a grandmother facedown on her lawn, pet dog sniffing at her displaced wig. Maureen and Frank sat to my left, and Peter pushed up close to me at my right. It was our first physical contact in a long time—unless you counted the punch.

  But Peter didn’t sit still for very long. He squirmed in his seat until Maureen noticed.

  “Mom?” he said. When he leaned forward I saw the big purple bruise I’d left on the side of his face.

  “What?”

  He held his nose and made a face. “I think Dad needs a shower.”

  20

  The quality of their disregard was terrifying. I wasn’t, as I’d flattered myself by imagining, a monster in their midst, a constant reminder of a better life that had eluded them. They weren’t somber or mournful at all. They coped. I was a combination of a big, stupid pet and an awkward, unplugged appliance too big for the closet. I was in the way. It was too soon for them to begin hoping—or dreading—that I’d come back, and in the meantime I was a hungry, smelly nuisance.

  When Maureen leaned in close and suggested I go clean myself up, I knew to agree politely and follow the suggestion. I welcomed the chance to get away from them and reconnoiter, anyway.

  When I emerged from my shower they were already at the table eating. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected an invitation. They’d set a place for me, and I went and sat in it, and ate, quietly, and listened while they talked.

  The subject of Peter’s “injury” came up only once, and then just barely. I gathered that Frank and Maureen had decided to suppress any discussion, to play it down, and hope that Peter was still young enough that he would just plain forget. Find some childlike inner resource for blurring experience into fantasy.

  Maybe they would confront me later, when I came back, with Peter out at a friend’s house. But the subject was obviously taboo right now.

  The discussion mostly centered on Frank’s plans. The apartment he was looking at, and some second thoughts he seemed to be having about settling in this area. I sensed an undercurrent, between him and Maureen, of what wasn’t being discussed: Frank’s trouble. The phone calls he was avoiding. Yet more stuff for Peter not to hear. I wondered, though, knowing Peter’s smarts, how much he was picking up anyway.

  I was dying for a drink. I tried not to let it show on my face.

  After the meal Frank pleaded exhaustion and went into the guest room, and Maureen read a book on the bed. I set up in front of the television and tried not to think about what I was doing or why I was doing it. I walked through the apartment a couple of times on my way to the bathroom, and when I passed Peter’s door he looked up from his computer, and I had to struggle not to meet his eye. He would have admired my ruse, and I would have liked to let him in on it, but that wasn’t possible. So I stalked past his room like a zombie, and he turned back to his homework. I spent most of the evening on the couch, slogging through prime time. After Maureen tucked Peter into bed I followed her into the bedroom.

  She made the phone call about five minutes after she turned off the lights.

  “Philip?” she whispered.

  A pause.

  “Can you talk? I couldn’t sleep.” Pause. “No, he’s right here in bed with me. Of course he can’t hear. I mean it doesn’t matter, even if he can. No. No. It’s not that.” She sighed. “I just miss you.”

  I guess he talked a bit.

  “You do?” she said, her voice half-melted. I hadn’t heard her that way in a while. “Philip. Yes, I know. But it’s not that easy. You know. Yes. I wish I could.”

  They went on like that. Her voice was quiet enough that Peter and Frank wouldn’t hear, but in the darkened bedroom it was like a stage play. I could almost make out her boyfriend’s tinny replies over the phone.

  Then she giggled and said, “I’m touching myself too.”

  Thank God it was dark. My face must have been crimson. I felt the room whirling like a centrifuge, the bed at the center. I weighed a thousand or a million pounds and I was crushed into my place there on the bed beside Maureen by the pressure of gravity. I couldn’t move. I felt my blood pounding in my wrists and temples.

  Why was I there? What was I trying to prove?

  I knew, dimly, that I’d had some reason for the deception, that some part of me had insisted that there was something I could learn, something vital.

  It couldn’t have been this, though. I didn’t need this.

  So what was I after? What—

  I sat bolt upright in the bed, dislodging the covers.

  “Huh?” said Maureen. “Nothing, nothing. Listen, I have to go, I’ll call you back.” She hung up and turned on the light. I turned and looked at her in shock. She opened her mouth to scream, and somehow I got my hand over her mouth first. I wrestled her down against the bed, pushed her face into the pillow, twisted her arm behind her back, put my weight on her.

  I could hear her yelling my name into the pillow, wetly. Her ears were bright red.

  I tightened my grip on her arm. “Shhh,” I said, close to her ear. “No noise. No noise.” I listened at the hall, alert now, panicked. I had to convince her. “No noise.”

  “You’re dead,” she hissed when I let her up for air. “All I have to do is report you. You’re dead.” Her eyes were slits.

  “Shhh.” I let her go, forgot her. Focused on the hall.

  There wasn’t any light. Peter’s night light was out, or his door was closed.

  Impossible. Peter wouldn’t permit it.

  Someone was in the house. Frank’s pals.

  I slid into my pants, silently. I was operating with my Hell-reflexes now, and they were good. There wasn’t going to be any hostage. I would make sure of that. I would have complete surprise.

  I turned back to Maureen. “Call your pal,” I whispered. “Keep it quiet. Have him bring in the cops, but quiet, and slow.” She looked at me, stunned out of her outrage. “I’m serious. Call him. And stay in here. Whatever happens.”

  I didn’t leave her time for questions. In my pants and bare feet I crept out into the hall and made my way to Peter’s door.

  Inside I heard him whimpering softly, as if through a gag.

  I burst in.

  Peter was spread-eagled on his bed, bound with neckties. His pajamas were in shreds around his ankles. Frank, who wasn’t wearing anything at all, was kneeling on the side of the bed, as if praying over Peter’s helpless body. One hand was resting lightly on Peter’s stomach. In the other hand he held his own penis. His pubic hair was white. He looked up at me and his eyes widened for a moment, then fell. And then he grinned. His hands stayed where they were.

  I picked up Peter’s keyboard and smashed it against Frank’s white skull. He straightened up and stopped grinning, and reached back to feel his head.

  “Tommy,” he said, his voice soft, almost beguiling.

  I drew the keyboard back like a baseball bat and hit him again. This time I drew blood. I didn’t stop hitting him until he fell back against the floor, his mouth open, his eyes full of tears, his erection wilting.

  Peter watched the whole thing from the bed, his mouth gagged, his eyes wide. When I dropped the keyboard and looked up, he met my eyes, for a minute. Then I looked away. I found his floppy disks for Hell, the main disk and the backup, and I tore them in half and tossed them onto the floor, beside Frank.

  Peter didn’t get untied until the police showed up. Maureen was hiding in her room and I, try as I might, just couldn’t bring myself to touch him.

  21

  I
live alone now. The settlement went like this: I see Peter every other weekend—if I happen to be back from Hell, that is—and only in the company of his mother. And I don’t go anywhere near the house.

  Yes, Uncle Frank was Colonel Eagery, aka The Happy Man. He’d molested me as a boy, right in our house, while my father was away, and with my mother in the kitchen making breakfast. I remember it all now.

  And yes, I killed him.

  Needless to say, there wasn’t any Mob on his trail. The call he’d been dreading was the Baltimore police. He was on the run from a molestation offense.

  Like I said, I live alone. It’s a pretty nice place, and a lot closer to the station. There’s a pretty nice bar around the corner. Different crowd every night.

  Yes, I still go to Hell, but it’s different now. There isn’t any horse, or witch, or Happy Man. There isn’t even a forest.

  When I go to Hell now it’s like this:

  I’m back in the house with Maureen and Peter. I live with them again. But I’m unable to speak, or reach out to them: I’m a zombie. I start by sitting in front of the television, flipping channels, and then eventually I wander around the apartment, brushing past Maureen, but never able to speak to her, never able to take her hand or hold her or lead her into the bedroom. After a while I go and stand in the doorway of Peter’s room. He turns and looks up at me, but I look away, afraid to meet his eye. I pretend to look the other way, and he goes back to his computer.

  And that’s it. I spend the rest of the time standing in his doorway, looking over his shoulder at the computer screen.

  Watching him play my Hell.

  VANILLA DUNK

  Elwood Fossett and I were in a hotel room in Portland, after dropping a meaningless game to the Sony Trail Blazers—we’d already made the playoffs—when the lottery came on the television, the one where they gave away the Michael Jordan subroutines.

  The lottery, ironically, was happening back in our home arena, the Garden, while we were on the road. It was an absurd spectacle, the place full of partisan fans rooting for their team’s rookie to draw the Jordan skills, the rookies all sitting sheepishly with their families and agents, waiting. The press scurried around like wingless mosquitoes.