Light of Day (14 page)

He wondered what it would feel like to talk to Anne. He'd been thinking about talking to her ever since the funeral because she was Danny's mother—
You and Anne used to talk about everything. What would you say to her now? “We can't undo what's been done, but our son, he was ours, Anne, is dead, and you should know about it.”

Would she say: “You must have me confused with some other woman named Anne.” Would she say: “I wish I could help you, Jack.” Or: “It's been such a long time, I don't even know who Danny is.” Would she say: “I don't even know
you
.” There'd be no apology in that voice, just straight and unfiltered: “I don't know why you called me, Jack.” Or would she understand why because she was Anne, and Danny's mother, and that can never change?

It disturbed him to admit that he wanted to talk to Anne, as though the past ten years had been some accident. It disturbed him to think about talking to her the way they used to talk when they were married, when they would lie on the bed and whisper in the dark; the way they used to talk before Danny was born. It disturbed him to think that some flaw in his character had weakened his resolve, that with one call he'd annihilate, demythologize, Dr. Owens, who packed his life into a truck-load of boxes and took his son to the safest place he could think of. Who had the confidence—
the arrogance, Jack?
—to think he could undo the damage.

It disturbed him to think about Anne the way he was thinking about her now. It disturbed him to think that he was being disloyal to Danny even as he wanted to talk to Anne like they used to
how
many
lifetimes
ago, because he couldn't get through this alone, and she was the only one he wanted to talk to. The only one who would understand this kind of sorrow—“Can you help me figure it out? Can you tell me why he did it?”

It disturbed him to think about her asking: “Can we always be like
this? Loving each other and living our lives together?” And he'd answered, “I don't know why not.”

But he hadn't understood the question—he hadn't understood what was in her voice. Just as he hadn't understood Anne, who asked it.

He hadn't understood the meaning of the question when Anne asked it the day they looked at the house he loved. Jack had never understood the question so he interpreted the question to his own design. Only years later, when The Baby had become Danny, did Jack understand the meaning of the question, and understand Anne, who had asked it. Only then did he know the sum total of his ignorance. Now, in the dead heat of the attic, feeling as though he were standing outside of himself, watching himself, as he wondered if he was going mad, Jack fantasized about Anne understanding, as no one else could understand, his sadness. Because he understood that Anne had never understood her own question, had never understood that asking it was asking for an answer that did not include Danny. But Jack had understood, ever since Anne said she was leaving. Only now could he tell her.

The corner of a label clung to his forearm like a lamprey. The air in the attic was hot with lint and wool dropping from the old clothes, sticking to his skin, sealing the air out of his pores; that must have been why he was having trouble breathing, but he kept looking at the pictures, aligning the corners, placing them in boxes, marking the dates and the places.

He imagined calling Danny's name, calling to him to come up for a minute: “Want to see what your first pair of shoes looked like?” Calling to him: “I want you to see a picture of you and Granma…” While he waded elbow-deep in photographs and baby clothes, elbow-deep in memories.

But Jack wanted to remember Danny not as a baby, or the little boy in the photographs hugging his grandmother, holding his new puppy. He didn't want to think about Danny, who was acting “weird” on the school bus, who was withdrawn and somber, or sat silently at the breakfast table while his food went untouched and asked: “Which is more important, Dad, honesty or loyalty?” Jack wanted to remember Danny who was becoming a young man, who last September asked, “What would you think if I decided to go away to college?”

“Any particular school?”

“I was thinking about Michigan or Wisconsin. Or do you want me to go to college in Indiana?”

“No. Just as long as it's a good school. I'm glad you're starting to think about it.”

“What if I wanted to be a classical pianist?”

“I'd say you're talented enough to become one.”

“What if I wanted to be a baseball player?”

“I'd say give it your best try. But there are better baseball and music programs than Michigan and Wisconsin.” When Danny didn't answer, Jack said, “What are you really asking me?”

Danny looked away for a moment, and when he looked back his face was flushed. When he spoke, his voice was tight and strained. “What if I'm not as smart as you when I'm older?”

“You already are. And smarter, even.”

“No, really.”

“Really.”

“But suppose I don't write books like you or become a famous pianist or composer?”

“Who says that has anything to do with being smart? Only a very smart person questions the limits of his intelligence.”

Danny sat silently for a moment and Jack did not intrude on that silence.

“I'm just afraid sometimes,” Danny said after a while.

“Can you tell me what you're afraid of?”

“I don't know. I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

They were sitting next to each other on the back steps, it was night, after supper and homework. Jack put his arm around Danny's shoulder and pulled him close, which made Danny look embarrassed and avert his eyes.

Jack wanted to remember the feel of Danny's presence. He wanted to remember the weight of his body in the car when he sat behind the wheel just last April and Jack let him drive to the stop sign at the end of the road, the way Danny shifted gears and tapped the accelerator and
smiled so broadly and proud when the car responded that Jack had to reach over and tousle his hair and tell him, “
You
are the
man
.”

Danny laughed and reluctantly gave up the driver's seat. He talked about next year when he'd be old enough to get a learner's permit and how he wanted to get a job after school and start saving for a car.

When Danny was with his friends out at the mall on Saturday afternoons, when he was in school, when he stood on the pitcher's mound and looked in for the sign, was he already thinking about suicide? When he talked about college or learning to drive, was it already inside of him? Was he hiding that the way he hid the box under the bed?

“Why weren't you listening, Jack? Why weren't you paying attention?”

What was in Danny's voice back in May?

“What was he saying? What weren't you hearing?”

Jack leaned against one of the cartons. His lips were dry and his tongue felt thick in his mouth. His skin itched. When he shifted his body, his legs and arms dragged weakly beneath him and bursts of light appeared before his eyes. He felt the heat enveloping him and had trouble remembering where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. There was a humming in his ears, as though voices were in conversation downstairs, or just outside the house.

Even with the window open, the attic was airless. He listened to the beating of his heart, the pulsing of the blood in his temples. He knew he was dehydrating. If he didn't get out of this heat, he would surely die. But when he tried to stand, he fell back on the floor. He would try again in a minute.

Outside, the moon was rising over the trees and the trees beat their branches against the window.

H
e was lying on his bedroom floor naked and sweating, the telephone pressed under his cheek. He was holding on to one of Danny's baby pictures and mumbling to himself. He could smell his sour breath, he could smell his own stale body odor. He had no idea what day it was. He could not remember coming down here, or who he'd tried to call, or when.

He put down the phone, started to get up, and his knees buckled. He leaned against the bed and when he managed to stand he saw himself in the mirror, or what was left of him. A ragged face, a gaunt body, filthy with lint and dust, a dull, abandoned look in his eye, like the survivor of a shipwreck.

The telephone rang. He felt nothing but dread. When he picked it up and said “Hello,” the word broke apart in his mouth. A bitter taste of bile curdled in his throat. He waited for the voice at the other end. Grace's voice. The doctor's voice. He waited for the bad news.

The voice said it was “Marty.” Jack didn't remember anyone named Marty. It said, “I saw the movie.”

“Movie,” Jack repeated dimly.

“Blade Runner.”

“Marty, the detective?”

“I wanted to have a little more insight into Danny, so I rented it. I had no idea—that's one hell of a movie.”

“I'm in the middle of something, Marty. I can't really talk right now.”

“Fair enough. I just wanted to tell you it really impressed me, and I'd like to get together and talk to you about it.”

“I'll call you sometime.”

“I'll look forward—How are you doing? Under the circumstances. You're doing all right?”

“Sure.”

“Getting out of the house, seeing people?”

Sweat ran down Jack's neck and the length of his spine. “I'm seeing people.”

“Great. I was hoping you and I could have a beer or something.”

“I'll call you.”

“What about tonight? It's so damn hot. We can go over to the Palomino for a cold one.”

“You caught me at a bad time.”

“What's a good night for you?”

“There aren't any good nights.” Jack felt like a drunk scrambling in the dark for his keys, scrambling to get away from this conversation. Scrambling for some part of himself. His teeth were chattering, his hands trembled. Marty wouldn't need his books to recognize the carnage. “Maybe you need him to see you like this,” Jack whispered.

“What's that?”

“I'm here.”

“How about seven?” Marty said, talking past him. “They put in air-conditioning.”

 

The Palomino Grille was long past its glory days, when it was the fanciest speakeasy in town, or so the old-timers claimed. When Prohibition was repealed, it was the first speakeasy in the state to get a full liquor license—something to do with its clientele, which included the mayor, governor and both U.S. senators—and easily transformed itself into a legitimate bar and steak joint, a Grille, with beautiful stained-glass windows and a bubbling jukebox that played Fred Rose, Jimmie Rodgers, Tex Ritter and even some Woody Guthrie. It wasn't the first place Jack would have picked to have a drink, or even the second. He hadn't been
here since his student days, when he and his friends came by to soak up the local color and drink the very affordable beer.

There was a relaxed, broken-in feel to the place, the oak bar, the dim lighting, the worn-out tables and soft chairs. The air-conditioning was tolerably cool and the conversations were muted, just a bunch of men, some of them old-timers, the old miners and railroad men, some simply old-timers-in-the-making, sitting around, drinking, letting the evening pass quietly and leisurely toward closing time. The Palomino was the closest thing Gilbert had to an old-fashioned tavern, not the sort of place that attracted hard drinkers or anyone looking to make trouble, where a man whose son had killed himself just two months ago might not necessarily feel too overwhelmed.

Marty was sitting by the window in the front of the barroom drinking a beer and, when he saw Jack, signaled the bartender to bring over two more bottles. Jack started sweating. The acrid taste of fear was on his tongue. He should not have left the house and the telephone unattended. It was a mistake to have come here. He tapped his foot, picked at the skin around his cuticles while Marty looked him over, not saying anything, just watching him and doing the same remarkable thing with his face that he'd done the first time they'd met, and which now made Jack sit down and keep still.

Marty said something, Jack was incapable of listening, “tough time…” “easy time…” Something about
Blade Runner
…Maybe they were questions, but they remained unanswered. Jack might have raised the bottle to his lips, but if he had, he was not aware of it. He was aware only of being away from his house, away from the telephone that might be off the hook, the answering machine that may have become, through some malfunction, some accident Jack had been too numb to notice—through a will of its own—inoperative. Away from all the checks and double-checks that held the next disaster at bay. His insides were tumbling over themselves, his flesh felt like it was about to crawl right off the bone and take the damp hairs with it. And Marty was talking about what? Jack pushed his chair away from the table.

“My son killed himself, Marty. My son is dead.” And he rushed outside, where the air on Main Street was hot and motionless.

Marty went after him. “It's only going to get worse,” he called out.

Jack walked faster.

“It's only going to get worse,” Marty repeated after he caught up with him.

“What makes you so damn
pre
scient?”

“I know that look.”

“We'll have to discuss it someday.” Jack picked up the pace.

Marty stayed with him. “I'm no great detective, Jack, probably not even a good one, but I'm looking at you and seeing depression and damn near starvation.”

“Don't worry about
me
. I'm doing all right.”

“You haven't slept in days. My guess is you've got insomnia. And the way you ran out of there, I figure you're having panic attacks. You're as pale as—when was the last time you left the house?”

Jack felt as though a cold stone had been dropped in his stomach. He felt tightness gripping his chest. His fingertips had gone numb. Not because of anything Marty had said, but because something terrible had happened to his father, he could sense it, and Marty was stopping him from taking care of it.

“I'm hardly panicked or starving. And I'm not running anywhere.” Jack's body strained to reach the corner.

“I can help you,” Marty told him.

“I don't need your help.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

The empty street flashed past him, the dark storefronts, the quiet restaurants. “Everyone's gone for the summer,” Jack said flatly. “Everyone but the old-timers, this lunatic cop and me.”

“Nothing bad's going to happen if you don't go home,” Marty said, not unkindly.

“You don't know what you're talking about.” Jack wanted to believe that. Just as he wanted to believe that the man lying naked on his bedroom floor hadn't been him. But he could only think of
What next?
He could only think of getting home before the next disaster.

“I
do
know what I'm talking about,” Marty said.

The heat and humidity felt oppressive and suffocating, the air was
thick and hot like dog's breath, heavy with the scraps of the season: ashes from cookouts, bits of paper and gunpowder from fireworks, grease and smoke, blades of mowed lawns, and insects, all clinging to Jack's skin, choking his lungs. But he would not slow down. “I'll mourn my son as I see fit.”

“I'm not telling you not to. And I'm not telling you to swallow your pain, either. I just want to talk to you.”

“I don't want to talk to
you
.” Jack followed his shadow as it lengthened under the streetlights. “Go help the other boy's family. They need it more than I do.”

“I'm not too sure of that.”

“And please don't feel sorry for me.”

“I don't feel sorry for you. I admire your strength.”

“Don't patronize me, either.”

“Who's patronizing you? But I don't think the rules state that you have to make things worse for yourself.”

“Oh, there are
rules
.”

“I meant to tell you sooner.”

Jack turned the corner. “This is none of your concern, so back off.” He stopped at his car and opened the door.

“Talk with me for a few minutes.”

Jack clenched his teeth. “I'm going to slug you if you don't get out of my way.”

Marty didn't flinch. “You know, I used to be married to a woman I really loved, then my marriage fell apart and I proceeded to fall apart, too.” He looked only at Jack's eyes. “I had the same symptoms as you.”

“I don't have any
symp
toms.”

“It's like a floating sense of foreboding.”

Jack gave no answer.

“It got so I was afraid that if I didn't keep busy I'd die.” Marty spoke slowly, his voice barely raised above a whisper. “I convinced myself that staying busy and my well-being were interconnected.”

“I don't need to talk.”

“After a month, I realized my life was out of control, that I was a slave to my obsessions. So I took a day off, drove out to Douglas Park, got in a row
boat and rowed to the middle of the lake. I made myself stay out there, doing nothing all day. By sunset there I was, still alive and none the worse for wear. I did the same thing the next day, and the day after. It took some time, but I proved to myself that my fears were groundless.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Unless you think I'm a sadistic son of a bitch.”

“Get out of my way.”

“I just want to talk for a little while. Not about Danny. Or you. Just talk. We can talk about
Blade Runner
.”

“Some other time, okay?”

Marty ignored him. “In your book, you wrote that it raises the same questions about mortality and God that
Frankenstein
does.”

“What the hell do you want from me?”

“And Danny was
eight
when he saw the movie?”

“Twelve, okay. And if you want to chew on something, chew on this: he said what made him sad was the replicants were programmed to die when they turned four. That was the same age Danny was when his mother left him. Now get out of my way.”

“You wrote if we ever came face-to-face with God, the one question we would ask, the question humanity has always asked is: ‘If you love me, why do you let me die?' Which is what the replicant asks his maker. You said that's what Christ was asking God on the cross.”

“And hardly a question I'm prepared to ask right now. So fuck off.” Jack couldn't hear what Marty said. He was thinking about Danny, who wasn't his creation, after all, and who had secrets and who killed himself. While his hands started to tremble.

“…said he could see the movie?” Marty was saying. “Were you aware of that?”

When Jack didn't answer, Marty asked, “Did Danny ever talk about it?”

“I'm not suffering from any of the symptoms you described.” Jack stumbled over the words.

“You're afraid to be here. That seems like a symptom of
some
thing.”

“I'm not afraid. I just don't want to talk. I'm going home.”

“Come on, Jack. You're having a tough time. What's so wrong with letting me help you?”

“I don't need your help.” Jack jangled his car keys nervously. “I'm not the man standing on the ledge.”

Marty looked at him and said solemnly, “You're supposed to be sad, as sad as you want, you're supposed to grieve and mourn and feel whatever the hell you want. But you can't be victim to your fears.” He stepped back and sat on the curb, a Chaplinesque gesture without the comedy and the cuteness; nothing bittersweet about it, nothing baggy-pants. It was simply an act of courage. All Jack had to do now was step over him, get in the car and leave him looking like a fool. Marty must have known that, but it didn't seem to frighten him.

In the heat of summer, Jack was standing in the shadows, sweating and shaking, feeling like a scared and helpless little shit.

“All this because you saw
Blade Runner
and once heard Danny play the piano?”

Marty said, “You looking for an airtight reason? I don't know why. Maybe I'm a lunatic cop.” He motioned for Jack to sit down. “Maybe it's just something I want to do. Or maybe I just like you and I'm short on people I like.” He didn't look up, he only looked straight ahead, as though he expected Jack to stay there, as though he understood the meaning and strength of his own gesture; and Jack realized it was anything but calculated. For only a moment, he wanted to tell Marty about the grief and the fears. He wanted to admit that he was afraid to leave his house, that he was afraid to sleep and afraid to stay awake. He wanted to tell him about the days and nights of neglect, of sitting naked in the attic and passing out in the bedroom. His face felt damp and hot. He was finding it hard to breathe. He sat down on the hot curbstone, but he said nothing.

Marty made a fist with his right hand, stuck it in the palm of his left and pressed both hands against his chin. He kept looking straight ahead. “Did you always want to be a professor?” he asked.

Jack didn't answer.

“Was your ex-wife a professor, too?”

“Are you trying to draw me out?”

“Was she?”

“An artist,” Jack said.

“You wrote that great art has the ability to transcend its genre. Did your wife transcend the genre?”

Jack said, “Yes, Anne transcended the genre.” And the place inside him, the soft spot where the girl named Anne was still twenty years old with dots of yellow paint in her hair and a smile that made him stare in dumb amazement, and where Danny was still a little boy and there were no signs of trouble, the soft spot throbbed like a newborn heart.