No Birds Sing Here

by Daniel V. Meier Jr.

  Last night was not to be repeated, at least not by the pool, but in a hot sleeping bag. That had been another of Honey’s games. She was Maria and Beckman was Robert Jordan, complete with rifle, wineskin, and beret. They drank over a quart of wine before crawling into the sleeping bag. Beckman had a difficult time being serious, and an even more difficult time trying to pry Honey out of her Spanish Army battle fatigues. The dialogue was to be strictly Hemingwayesque, but the most trying part for Beckman was sex all night, until Honey was satisfied that the earth had moved in the backyard of her Palm Beach home.

  Beckman was simply weary, emptied of body and soul. He finished what remained of the concoction in the coconut shell and placed it slowly, carefully, in its silver holder. His body felt pleasantly aflame; internally from the vodka and externally from the sun which had, unnoticed by him, passed its zenith, leaving his flesh smelling something like warm meat.

  He rose from the lounge chair and adjusted his jock strap, which was not required dress around the pool but had proven necessary for protection against the sun. He eased into the pool water. It was cool and clear and Beckman, fascinated by the patterns of reflected light dancing on the bottom, didn’t see the professor walking toward him until the he was standing directly over him.

  The professor had a new companion, a young sailor, an enlisted man, on liberty from a visiting ship. The young sailor, holding his hat respectfully in his hands, gazed around in wonder at the pool. The professor placed his hand familiarly on the sailor’s back.

  “Beckman, I want you to meet Todd. Todd’s one of our young warriors. Aren’t you, Todd?”

  The sailor was embarrassed. “Well, sir, I wouldn’t put it like that.”

  “Modesty. Don’t you think that modesty in a young warrior is irresistible, Beckman?”

  “Leon, you know I wouldn’t think of it that way.”

  “Of course not.” The professor turned, flashing Beckman a haughty profile, and started straightening the sailor’s collar, which had wrinkled in a gust of wind. The sailor appeared confused, yet something about his reluctance warned Beckman that he knew what was going on.

  “How is the water?” asked the professor.

  “Just great. Very refreshing.”

  Turning to Todd, the professor asked, “Would you like to go for a swim?”

  “Well—yes, if it’s all right,” the sailor said quietly.

  “Then help yourself. You can change in the bath house there.” The professor pointed to the white stucco structure at the back of the main house. He waited, playing nervously with his hands, until the sailor was gone, then squatted beside Beckman.

  “You should see what he’s got on underneath that uniform. Whoever designs those navy swim trunks really has the right idea. I mean, it’s little better than a G string.” Then quickly, apologetically, “Oh, I mean it’s perfectly all right here. Almost nothing else will do, in fact. But out there, in public—”

  “Maybe the kid can’t afford anything else. You ought to keep that in mind.”

  “There’s absolutely no need to be sarcastic, Beckman. What I really wanted to know was, where is Honey?”

  Beckman shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  The professor opened his mouth to say something further, but it faded away. Beckman saw it leave his face and mind, withdrawing like a ghost.

  “You know, Leon, I’ve avoided it up until now, and I must admit you’ve been a perfect gentleman about it, but what really happened in New Orleans with Hoss?”

  Leon compressed his lips. “Your friend Hoss is some kind of monster. I can tell you that, and that image he projects of the aggressive heterosexual is totally false.” Leon waited, expecting his statement to have a strong effect on Beckman. “Well, he led me around by the nose for a few days, and then after he got what he wanted, he robbed me at knife point.”

  “Didn’t you call the police?”

  “Are you serious? You know what they do to people like me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Leon. This is a very tolerant period in history. New Orleans has always had the reputation of being a rather open city.”

  “Not me. I’m not going to take a chance like that. I’ll pay every time.”

  “Did Hoss say where he was going?” Beckman asked.

  “To California, I suppose. He’s insane enough. He ought to fit in there very well. If I had my way, dangerous people like that would be locked up.”

  The sailor was returning across the grass, walking slightly on his toes and wearing only his navy issue swim trunks. He pretended ignorance of the professor’s scrutiny. Leon stood up quickly with undisguised rapture on his face.

  “Better watch it, Leon. This boy may not be as naive as he appears.”

  Leon smiled down at Beckman. “I hope not.”

  The young sailor walked around to the diving board, tested it with a few springing hops, then did a near perfect jackknife dive, surfacing about midway down the pool, and swimming like a playful seal to the other end. The professor applauded. “Beautiful! Just beautiful!”

  The young sailor was pleased with the admiration. As if expected to repeat the performance, he dove under again and started swimming with Tarzan-like breast strokes toward the other end of the pool.

  “Don’t you think you ought to at least warn him before you—”

  “No!” Leon screamed. “No! You know I never force anybody. He will be free to leave any time he likes.” Leon’s face was enraged. “If you do anything to ruin this for me, I will kill you! I swear to God that I will kill you!”

  The sailor surfaced at the other end, heaving for breath.

  “Would you like a towel?” Leon shouted.

  The sailor smiled and nodded yes.

  “Just a second.” Leon bent down once more next to Beckman. “Remember what I said. This is very important to me.”

  Beckman shrugged and watched as Leon picked up a towel from one of the lounge chairs and walked hurriedly to where the sailor had climbed out of the pool. Beckman dove into the pool and swam leisurely over to the pool’s ladder, climbed out, walked over to the outside shower, and washed the pool chemicals and the residual feeling of slime off his body. In the main house, he dressed in the new clothes Honey had bought for him; a pair of faded denim shorts, Roman sandals, and a large T-shirt with DO IT IN PALM BEACH printed in flashing colors on the front with appropriate sun and palm tree designs on the back. He poured a large rum over ice, squeezed half a lime into it, and flopped into one of Honey’s cushioned bamboo chairs.

  The house was an attractive place, a part of Honey’s inheritance. Yet something about the place stubbornly rejected her. Her father’s World War II mementos were still on display in the glass cases made for them, sealed in dustless air thirty years ago. A dented steel helmet, a long bayonet, a ragged, blood-stained Japanese Army shirt—all relics of a nearly forgotten brutality. When Beckman first opened the closet door in his room, he was shocked to see it half filled with old military uniforms, sagging from rusting hangers like a row of corpses.

  In the corner of the closet stood a Belgian Army rifle. In another room, next to the kitchen, were rows and rows of preserved foods—all, Honey said, prepared by her mother in case of bombing.

  Beckman had the disturbing feeling that he was sitting in the presence of very unfriendly ghosts. He imagined one of the guns suddenly falling out of its case and firing an ancient bullet at him. He finished his drink in a few gulps, stood up, looked around, almost believing that he would see an ethereal figure standing near him, ordering him out of their preserved time in a thunder-clap of rage. He felt his throat constricting—spiritual, weightless fingers closing off his breath, warning him. He left the house in a hurry; not running, not walking, but moving swiftly down the palm-lined drive, past the iron gate and gasping only once, the way a scuba diver sucks in his first breath of surface air.

  He walked down the street, ignoring the perpetual angry glances of Hispanic maids pushing baby strollers which held the white in
heritors of vast fortunes. And he ignored the angry glances of those waiting for rides back to dirt and cheap food, back to horny Hispanic studs begging, “Hey, Mama, let’s do it,” and the unrelenting threat of poverty and of the powerful. In no other place that Beckman had seen were the differences between the rich and the poor so clearly drawn.

  Beckman stopped to watch two young women strolling along in clean, tailored tennis outfits. They seemed like products of a separate species; naturally superior, haughty as angels, knowing secrets that only their equals could know.

  A car squealed to a stop in front of him, slicing off his view of the two women. For an instant the car looked exactly like Malany’s, smoking from the exhaust pipe, the body sagging on tired springs. Honey was behind the wheel, wearing a blonde Dutch Boy wig. There was something different about the car; not because it was a small difference, but because it was so big, like suddenly noticing that a whole group of stars were no longer visible. The top had been cut off, cut with a welder’s acetylene torch, leaving burned, jagged edges and nodules of burnt, blue metal.

  “You like that, huh!” Honey shouted, cutting her eyes toward the two women who were now only miniature figures in the distance. “You want to screw ’em?” Honey stood up in the seat and shouted in the direction of the women. “Hey, sweethearts, Beckman wants to fuck!”

  Beckman leapt over the car door and jerked Honey down into the seat.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing? This car, that dumb wig, and doing what you did just now.”

  Honey shifted into low gear and started down the street toward the house.

  “Was I convincing?”

  “As what?”

  “Zelda, of course. I’ve found the most wonderful suit for you. I had to go all over town before I found just the right thing. Navy blue with pinstripes and a stunning vest. I even stopped and bought you a carnation. See?”

  She reached around in the back seat and brought out a flimsy, clear, plastic box containing a death white carnation.

  “It’ll look splendid on you, but you have to do something with your hair, lighten it a little, slick it back. You have to look super clean, you know, but also like you’ve got a splitting hangover and worried about impotency. That will be hardest for you, dear, but you must try.”

  “Honey, this is going too far. I’m not going to do it. It’s a bit too much of a luxury, don’t you think? Acting crazy without really being crazy.”

  “Well, how do you know I’m not ‘really crazy,’ as you say?”

  “This is ridiculous. You’re not insane, and you know it.”

  “Insane, no. But crazy, yes. There’s a difference.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “Well, how can I explain it to you . . . let’s see . . . The only way I can think of is that you’ve got to be a little crazy to keep from going insane. Understand?”

  Honey turned into the driveway and rolled slowly into the garage. Beckman was silent, taken off balance by Honey’s inverted reasoning. The sense was there, but then, when he thought about it, it wasn’t.

  “What about you and this psychokinesis stuff ? That’s crazy, ask anybody. How many people laugh in your face when you tell them?”

  “Not many.”

  “That’s bad. At least the ones who laugh aren’t afraid of you. They don’t think you’re dangerous. You see, Beckman, we’re a lot alike. We both have to do crazy things to keep from going insane. I sometimes think of it as aligning your perspectives. Now, come on. Get changed. I want to see what you look like as Scott Fitzgerald.”

  Beckman vowed to his image in the mirror that this would be the last time. No more of this perverse humiliation. He straightened his tie and brushed back his hair again. It would not lay down regardless of how much hair grease he put on it and, even though it made him slightly nauseous to think of it, he did look a little like Fitzgerald. One more tug at the vest and he walked out to the pool. Honey had torches burning around the pool and a seemingly endless tape of 1920s jazz music. Leon was there and Honey danced with the sailor.

  He started to turn back. Private craziness with Honey he could tolerate, but group craziness had to be out of the question. A line had to be drawn.

  Leon shouted from his table by the pool, “Wait. I want to talk to you.”

  Beckman stopped but did not turn around.

  “Well, Scott, how do you like it?” Leon stepped back one pace, arms open for Beckman to admire his Alexander the Great costume.

  “Very appropriate for conquest.”

  “Now, Beckman. Don’t be churlish.” The professor smiled. “Or is it jealous?”

  “I have to go, Leon. Enjoy yourself.”

  “Wait, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  Leon cleared his throat. “It’s really only a game, Beckman. Nothing serious, nothing to get angry about. Honey’s even having a few guests over later. Everyone will be in costume. It’ll be fun to watch. You know how Honey plays at reality the way others play at fantasy.”

  “You and the sailor weren’t supposed to be here. Honey broke her promise,” Beckman said, not bothering to disguise the irritation in his voice.

  “Well, she’s being Zelda, you know; zany, unpredictable, wild. I suppose she thinks that’s a part of it.”

  “Maybe, but I’ve had enough of this madness. I’m leaving. Just do me one favor.” Beckman said, pointing his finger at Leon’s chest.

  Leon smiled. “Of course.”

  “Give me an hour’s head start before you tell her.”

  “You can count on it. In fact, I won’t mention it to her at all if I can avoid it. I’m rather happy to see you go.”

  “I know.”

  Beckman turned and walked away, straight to Honey’s room. She had left her purse on the bed, along with her undergarments and a wadded-up dress. He tore open the purse, jabbed his hand down into it, and scattered the contents until he felt the wallet. He jerked it out, took out all of the cash, grabbed two sets of keys off the dresser, and ran for the garage.

  He drove as fast as the speed limit would allow to the airport in West Palm Beach, parked the car in the first available place, left the keys in it, and walked hurriedly to the terminal building. Airports had always been exotic places to him, so he didn’t feel too conspicuous in the Fitzgerald suit, running from airline counter to airline counter, searching for the earliest departure for Memphis. He found one leaving in thirty minutes.

  He assumed Leon had already told her. There would be enough time for Honey to come after him and cause a scene worthy of the most fanatical skyjacker. He would have to take the chance. He bought a one-way ticket, practically ran through the metal detecting arch, and ignored the suspicious looks of the attendant when he told her that he didn’t have a bag.

  At the gate, he leaned against a stanchion where he could see out into the terminal building. People were still walking through the security arch like some gateway to eternity. The thought frightened him; the possibility of crashing—few people survive when those massive iron birds plummet to the earth.

  He had never flown before, and the thought of it now began to nauseate him. There was still time to catch a bus, still time to walk back through that archway. Maybe he could cash in his ticket, but then the announcement to board came; commanding, reassuring. The group that he was to fly with, and possibly to die with, rose en masse and, bunching together, waited their turn to walk through the narrow hallway to the plane. Each was greeted by a blonde flight attendant who scanned them from head to toe with front to back scrutiny, then flicked an approving smile as they entered the tubular body of the aircraft.

  Beckman took his place beside the window. He could look out at the slender, knife-like wing supporting incongruously bulky engines. He felt oddly privileged to have this seat. The other two passengers beside him had to deal with a strictly human environment. He could escape out of the window, as close to real cosmic space as he was ever going to be.

  The door was sealed. Beckman gasped.
There was no physical escape now. The man next to him, who could have represented any suit and tie occupation, immediately opened a paperback book. He was used to it. The unimaginable mystery of the machine no longer interested him. The airplane’s hard, silver brightness, its violent potential were as disturbing to him as the picture of the half-naked woman on the cover of his book who seemed to look on some unshown horror.

  The plane started to roll. Beckman watched the wing outside of his window change shape. Hard, straight-lined, mechanical parts, without the delicate touch of feathers, extended and retracted with non-fluid economy. Who were these mathematicians and engineers that could create such powerful states of dynamic equilibrium? Was it because they had an unshakable belief in the absolute correctness of their logic? Were the symbols they worked with more than just abstract representations? Beckman looked out again at the wing which had now become more like a slender, metallic finger, an unnatural thing, touching the setting sun.

  Beckman could see no human life on the earth below. There was hardly an indication that it even existed, except for an occasional cluster of small buildings, looking more like rubble. He was in a world of sky and cloud, inhabited only by him and the people with him. He was sorry now that he had insisted on driving to Palm Beach when Honey wanted to fly.

  He had wanted to waste time on the way, hoping that an opportunity would come, an acceptable opportunity like some natural disaster—a flood in Memphis or a crazed killer stalking Palm Beach—would call the trip off.

  He and Honey had made three motel stops along the way to Palm Beach. Beckman combed the national papers at every stop but found nothing, not even a reported fire. At the last stop, Beckman crawled out of bed when he was convinced Honey was asleep, and called Leon back in Memphis, who in a voice seething with rage—it was three a.m.—told Beckman in chopped-off words that no one had called, mailed, or begged for him, Malany or anything else, and hung up. Leon flew down later, for a long weekend, and was very apologetic.