accident, can you believe—”
“Can I help you with something, some drinks, perhaps?”
“—along came the train, and when I got on, all I could think about was Marcia and how I just wanted to get back to her.”
“Really?”
“Well, that was a long, long time ago.”
“Eric did, or was it Pilot?”
“—cute, aren’t you, just fantastically adorable, little—”
“—about your other son, Jim, don’t you have—”
“—was, flying on fumes, practically, no fucking idea in the world if I was even in the right vicinity, the Vietcong shooting
at me, snipers everywhere, and when I saw that clearing, I—”
“—get me another one—”
“—all my favorite songs—”
“—just went straight for it, I mean, you don’t see that kind of thing in the jungle over there, not very often, and not where
I was flying—”
“—tells this story every time he drinks, it’s embarrassing—”
“—love her—”
“—are you disagreeing?”
“—no, sir—”
“I swear to God I thought you said
disappearing
.”
“What?”
“—in that part of the world it’s all vegetation, all jungle, climbing vines, mangroves, weird swamps, and those people live
like it’s a thousand years ago, ten thousand—”
“Do they really eat bugs?”
“—had too much, I think—”
“It’s the same story every time he drinks.”
“Well, I’m sorry, all right? I happen to think it’s an entertaining story, and I happen to be drinking sometimes when other
people are around, so if you don’t mind—”
“—think it’s a wonderful story, really, I—”
“—hell is he, anyway?”
“Excuse me, you said, but are you
disappearing
with me?”
“Oh my God, that is
so
hilarious.”
“—like you’ve got a girlfriend. She’s not bothering you, is—”
In the woods was a stillness derived from this view of the party. In the woods out here behind our parents’ house was a quiet
that only a short but infinite distance enables. There was a darkness in these woods in contrast to the brightness of the
faces lighting up in the torchlight. There was a rustling in the treetops. As always, there was wind in the leaves. There
was unrest. There was an almost imperceptible chill arrivingthrough the trunks and black bark of the trees that came up from somewhere deep in the ground, some great source of coldness
that rose inexorably this time of year. From the woods a voice would rise off the top of the party and take on a life of its
own. A flicker of light would bank off a bough. A shriek of laughter would pierce through the branches, a strain of music
wafting in like perfume, and in here it would sound exactly like someone was screaming, but at such a low volume that it was
almost impossible to hear. I saw a man step into the woods, a man with long blond hair, a man who was thin and young, silhouetted
against the dark trees. He put his hand on a trunk, and let his head drop. I could see his chest heaving as if he were crying
or, I thought, as if he were about to be sick.
I see her in a still image, my sister, her legs wrapped around the waist of the blond man with the blond mustache—of Bryce
Telliman—her lips inside his ear. He is looking at me, a slight smile on his mouth. What is she saying? Her red one-piece
swimsuit is riding high up on her seven-year-old hips and her red high-top sneakers, untied, are dangling off her feet. I
can see their laces. His hair is so bleached from the sun that it is white, and his skin is too tan. He seems glamorous, Bryce
Telliman, as if he doesn’t belong at this party but should be at another, where all the girls are wearing swimsuits and the
music is rock and roll and the people are dancing. But he is here, strangely enough, at my parents’ house. And in this imaginary
photograph there are other people behind them, but only in the background, and they are fading into the darkness like images
in an old newspaper photograph,
“Can I help you with something, some drinks, perhaps?”
“—along came the train, and when I got on, all I could think about was Marcia and how I just wanted to get back to her.”
“Really?”
“Well, that was a long, long time ago.”
“Eric did, or was it Pilot?”
“—cute, aren’t you, just fantastically adorable, little—”
“—about your other son, Jim, don’t you have—”
“—was, flying on fumes, practically, no fucking idea in the world if I was even in the right vicinity, the Vietcong shooting
at me, snipers everywhere, and when I saw that clearing, I—”
“—get me another one—”
“—all my favorite songs—”
“—just went straight for it, I mean, you don’t see that kind of thing in the jungle over there, not very often, and not where
I was flying—”
“—tells this story every time he drinks, it’s embarrassing—”
“—love her—”
“—are you disagreeing?”
“—no, sir—”
“I swear to God I thought you said
disappearing
.”
“What?”
“—in that part of the world it’s all vegetation, all jungle, climbing vines, mangroves, weird swamps, and those people live
like it’s a thousand years ago, ten thousand—”
“Do they really eat bugs?”
“—had too much, I think—”
“It’s the same story every time he drinks.”
“Well, I’m sorry, all right? I happen to think it’s an entertaining story, and I happen to be drinking sometimes when other
people are around, so if you don’t mind—”
“—think it’s a wonderful story, really, I—”
“—hell is he, anyway?”
“Excuse me, you said, but are you
disappearing
with me?”
“Oh my God, that is
so
hilarious.”
“—like you’ve got a girlfriend. She’s not bothering you, is—”
In the woods was a stillness derived from this view of the party. In the woods out here behind our parents’ house was a quiet
that only a short but infinite distance enables. There was a darkness in these woods in contrast to the brightness of the
faces lighting up in the torchlight. There was a rustling in the treetops. As always, there was wind in the leaves. There
was unrest. There was an almost imperceptible chill arrivingthrough the trunks and black bark of the trees that came up from somewhere deep in the ground, some great source of coldness
that rose inexorably this time of year. From the woods a voice would rise off the top of the party and take on a life of its
own. A flicker of light would bank off a bough. A shriek of laughter would pierce through the branches, a strain of music
wafting in like perfume, and in here it would sound exactly like someone was screaming, but at such a low volume that it was
almost impossible to hear. I saw a man step into the woods, a man with long blond hair, a man who was thin and young, silhouetted
against the dark trees. He put his hand on a trunk, and let his head drop. I could see his chest heaving as if he were crying
or, I thought, as if he were about to be sick.
I see her in a still image, my sister, her legs wrapped around the waist of the blond man with the blond mustache—of Bryce
Telliman—her lips inside his ear. He is looking at me, a slight smile on his mouth. What is she saying? Her red one-piece
swimsuit is riding high up on her seven-year-old hips and her red high-top sneakers, untied, are dangling off her feet. I
can see their laces. His hair is so bleached from the sun that it is white, and his skin is too tan. He seems glamorous, Bryce
Telliman, as if he doesn’t belong at this party but should be at another, where all the girls are wearing swimsuits and the
music is rock and roll and the people are dancing. But he is here, strangely enough, at my parents’ house. And in this imaginary
photograph there are other people behind them, but only in the background, and they are fading into the darkness like images
in an old newspaper photograph,
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