wrinkles first upon one hollowing cheek—my soul becomes a prey to vague unrest. It torments me.
At such times of night I cannot sleep; I cannot wake; in its half dreaming state my mind forms a curious compound of things it has seen, things it has read, things it has heard—streams, each with its own degree of clarity and color, that intermingle, and penetrate my thought.
There was moonlight now, like a blanket, a shawl, thrown across my lap, making me the very image of an old man at rest, idly musing. I recalled Lee Gardner writing to me of a friend’s death, a writer he’d edited for years, and of the article by some self-styled expert briefly praising Lee’s friend, then going on at length to complain how he’d been lured away from “legitimate” novels by the temptation of huge sums of money to be made in writing genre fiction. Huge sums of money? Lee had asked, incredulous, in his letter. Legitimate novels? And still more incredulously: Sour obituaries—is this what we all come down to?
Most of our lives come down to far less, of course.
Long ago I’d given up trying to keep count how many times my own had gone south, gone sour, gone dead still. I’d think I knew where I was headed, every station, every stop, two dollars for the box lunch that came aboard at Natchez or Jackson tucked in my shirt pocket, only to find myself waylaid to some unsuspected sidetrack, engine long gone, mournful call fading.
That was the shape my son’s life took, too, whatever the explanation. Some errant braid in the genes, mother’s madness encoded, encysted and passed down the line; chaos dropping (we’d expected another caller) on a swing from above. As though all his life David had been scaling this huge mountain of sand. Some days, some years, he’d manage to kick in footholds and stay in place, maybe even hoist himself up a yard or two. But the sand always gave way.
The phone, I realized, had been ringing for some time. As I stood, the manteau of moonlight fell away from my lap. I crossed to the hall table and picked up the receiver. Quiet enough itself, my “Yes?” tipped headfirst into silence.
Someone there at the other end, though.
After a moment I hung up. Almost at once the phone began ringing again. I ignored it. The ringing stopped, then restarted. Beating its jangly chest till I capitulated.
“Lew? Were you sleeping?” Deborah.
“Not really. You just call?”
“Started to. Then someone needed something—right away, of course.”
“Don’t they always? Makes you feel important, though.
Needed. How many of us are given that?”
“You’re saying this is a gift?”
“Hey, you have to unwrap it, it’s a gift, right?”
“Hmmmm.”
“Wow. A polyester necktie with violins on it! An ant-farm picture frame! An electric hot dog grill!”
“Hmmmm again. How’d your day go?”
“Not bad. Stuck its head out of the water some earlier than I’d have liked. And now the tail keeps wagging.”
“T-a-i-l? Or t-a-l-e?”
“Either, I guess. Both.”
“Think any more about your book—if it is a book?”
“Haven’t had much chance to.” I told her about my visit to Don, what he was planning. Then about my expedition to the morgue with Santos.
“I’m sorry, Lew. Listen …”
Across the street, someone dressed all in gray, as though wearing tatters of the night itself, hove into view. He carried an old-fashioned red kerosene lantern, swinging it back and forth and shouting what well might have been (at this distance I saw only the motion of his lips) All aboard! Though he could as easily have been calling Bring out your dead, searching for an honest man, or just seeking warmth.
Surprising how we subtropical folk got used to the cold. Coming to take it so much for granted that we’d stopped remarking it. An adaptable lot. I stood now, blanketless, chill, watching the plume of my breath stream out, balance for a moment before me, fade.
“Rehearsal’s going … well … oddly, I guess
At such times of night I cannot sleep; I cannot wake; in its half dreaming state my mind forms a curious compound of things it has seen, things it has read, things it has heard—streams, each with its own degree of clarity and color, that intermingle, and penetrate my thought.
There was moonlight now, like a blanket, a shawl, thrown across my lap, making me the very image of an old man at rest, idly musing. I recalled Lee Gardner writing to me of a friend’s death, a writer he’d edited for years, and of the article by some self-styled expert briefly praising Lee’s friend, then going on at length to complain how he’d been lured away from “legitimate” novels by the temptation of huge sums of money to be made in writing genre fiction. Huge sums of money? Lee had asked, incredulous, in his letter. Legitimate novels? And still more incredulously: Sour obituaries—is this what we all come down to?
Most of our lives come down to far less, of course.
Long ago I’d given up trying to keep count how many times my own had gone south, gone sour, gone dead still. I’d think I knew where I was headed, every station, every stop, two dollars for the box lunch that came aboard at Natchez or Jackson tucked in my shirt pocket, only to find myself waylaid to some unsuspected sidetrack, engine long gone, mournful call fading.
That was the shape my son’s life took, too, whatever the explanation. Some errant braid in the genes, mother’s madness encoded, encysted and passed down the line; chaos dropping (we’d expected another caller) on a swing from above. As though all his life David had been scaling this huge mountain of sand. Some days, some years, he’d manage to kick in footholds and stay in place, maybe even hoist himself up a yard or two. But the sand always gave way.
The phone, I realized, had been ringing for some time. As I stood, the manteau of moonlight fell away from my lap. I crossed to the hall table and picked up the receiver. Quiet enough itself, my “Yes?” tipped headfirst into silence.
Someone there at the other end, though.
After a moment I hung up. Almost at once the phone began ringing again. I ignored it. The ringing stopped, then restarted. Beating its jangly chest till I capitulated.
“Lew? Were you sleeping?” Deborah.
“Not really. You just call?”
“Started to. Then someone needed something—right away, of course.”
“Don’t they always? Makes you feel important, though.
Needed. How many of us are given that?”
“You’re saying this is a gift?”
“Hey, you have to unwrap it, it’s a gift, right?”
“Hmmmm.”
“Wow. A polyester necktie with violins on it! An ant-farm picture frame! An electric hot dog grill!”
“Hmmmm again. How’d your day go?”
“Not bad. Stuck its head out of the water some earlier than I’d have liked. And now the tail keeps wagging.”
“T-a-i-l? Or t-a-l-e?”
“Either, I guess. Both.”
“Think any more about your book—if it is a book?”
“Haven’t had much chance to.” I told her about my visit to Don, what he was planning. Then about my expedition to the morgue with Santos.
“I’m sorry, Lew. Listen …”
Across the street, someone dressed all in gray, as though wearing tatters of the night itself, hove into view. He carried an old-fashioned red kerosene lantern, swinging it back and forth and shouting what well might have been (at this distance I saw only the motion of his lips) All aboard! Though he could as easily have been calling Bring out your dead, searching for an honest man, or just seeking warmth.
Surprising how we subtropical folk got used to the cold. Coming to take it so much for granted that we’d stopped remarking it. An adaptable lot. I stood now, blanketless, chill, watching the plume of my breath stream out, balance for a moment before me, fade.
“Rehearsal’s going … well … oddly, I guess
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