Light of Day (8 page)

They kept to the pecking order: Brian in the chair at the top of the semicircle, Rick, on one side of him, Danny's chair, empty now, on the other side, and C.J. No one was throwing rocks or pushing anyone around. There was no bantering, just some talking without much animation, until they saw the car pull up, then the boys sat silent and motionless.

They watched Jack walk up the porch steps, pull up a fifth chair and sit at the mouth of the arc.

Brian said, “We're going to miss Danny very much, Dr. Owens.” C.J. shook his head to let Jack know that he'd kept his word.

“Your parents told you,” Jack said flatly.

“We're going to miss him,” Rick repeated.

“He was great.” Brian's eyes started to well up and he was having a difficult time holding back the tears. “We're very sad about it.”

They were Danny's friends, who had sat on the porch on other afternoons like this, when the sun moved a little deeper toward the solstice, when the air wasn't quite summer but close enough. When they confessed their fears to each other, spoke their plans. But none of them could have planned on this. You can't be fifteen years old and be on the lookout for death.

Jack looked at their faces and he thought about Danny, who had been their arbitrator, their peacemaker, the swing vote, and he wondered what that told him that he didn't already know.

Brian looked at Jack but only for a moment, then he sat forward, rested his elbows on his knees and looked down at his hands. Rick looked over at Brian, then lowered his eyes and tugged at his shirt-sleeves. C.J. stared at his backpack. No one moved. No one spoke.

It was disturbing to watch their sadness, their inability to make sense of Danny's death. They were waiting for an explanation. Waiting for Jack to tell them why Danny would want to kill himself. Jack could only say, “Maybe we can help each other understand it a little better.”

Brian said, “That's what we've been trying to do, Dr. Owens. Believe me, we've been trying, but we don't know why.”

“It's not an easy thing to understand, is it?”

Rick said no it wasn't and repeated Brian's “We've been trying but we just don't know why he did it.”

“Did he ever talk about being depressed?” Jack wanted to know. “Or give any indication that something might have been bothering him?”

The boys glanced at each other.

“Nothing he told us about,” Rick answered, keeping his eyes on Brian.

“Nothing,” Brian said. “He was the same old Danny. He was just like he always was.”

“Maybe it was something he only talked about once,” Jack said.

“Not to any of us.” Brian's voice was shaky. He started to say something else, stopped, looked over at Rick, then at C.J. “He didn't say anything to us.”

Rick crossed and uncrossed his long legs, gave his sleeve another tug. “Like Brian's saying, he was the same old Danny.”

Jack looked over at C.J. and then at the other boys. “There wasn't anything he talked to any of you about? Anything he ever hinted at? Being depressed or feeling overwhelmed by school or
any
thing?”

Brian shook his head without looking up. “He was the same old Danny.”

“Was he eating?” Jack wanted to know.

“Eating?” Brian and Rick asked together.

“He wasn't eating much last week,” Jack explained. “Was he eating when he was with you guys?”

“You mean lunch and like that?” Brian looked at the others. “Danny was eating, wasn't he, guys?”

“Yeah,” Rick said. “We all ate together. Lunch, and the usual junk after school.”

“He ate supper at my house at least once,” Brian said. “Honest, Dr. Owens, if there was anything bothering Danny, we would have known about it.”

“Even if he didn't say anything,” Rick added, “we could tell.”

“But he
didn't
say anything,” Brian insisted.

Jack looked from one boy to the other. “Danny didn't seem unusu
ally upset or worried?”

“No,” Brian assured him with less certainty than Jack would have liked. Or was it sadness that he heard in Brian's voice, or confusion? “He was
Danny
.”

“It might have been very subtle, something that you might not have noticed at first. Think for a minute.”

Brian shook his head. “I didn't notice anything like that.”

Rick echoed Brian.

“Danny would have,” C.J. whispered timidly.

“Danny would have?” Brian said back to him.

“If it were one of us,” C.J. answered, “he would have noticed. He would have known why.”

Brian frowned at him. “Don't, C.J. Come on.”

Rick frowned, too, and looked over at Brian before he volunteered, “All C.J.'s trying to say, Dr. Owens, is Danny was awesome.”

They were boys acting like little men, or trying to—Jack could imagine Danny acting the same, speaking in the same somber tones—the way they'd seen adults behave. But only their awkwardness showed. Rick seemed more gawky and jangled. Brian's self-command seemed forced and false. C.J. looked fragile and morose. It was painful to witness, painful to be a part of.

“If Danny was acting strange,” Rick began, “we'd have—I mean, he never acted, you know, weird or like—”

Brian broke in, “He was…He always made us laugh,” and remembered something Danny had done just the week before. Rick remembered Danny's impersonations, and one story followed another, Rick and Brian talking about when they'd become Danny's friends, and when they had sleepovers and told scary stories, Danny was the last to admit he was scared. In the seventh grade, when everyone teased Brent Ackerman because he stuttered and didn't do well in school, Danny went out of his way to invite Brent to the movies or to play ball, even though he was uncoordinated “and was always tripping over himself.”

“Danny was awesome,” Rick said.

“He was the best friend we ever had,” Brian whispered.

“He was the best, period,” Rick added.

Jack waited a moment before he asked, “Did he ever talk about—Danny asked me which was more important, honesty or loyalty? Did he ever talk to you about that?”

Brian shook his head and looked over at Rick, who shook his head silently.

C.J. whispered something, unsnapped his backpack and pulled out a blue Hawaiian shirt. He might as well have pulled out a ghost, the way the other boys stared at it. “Danny lent this to me,” he said, in a voice that made Jack shudder and the other boys sit back up in their chairs. “I guess you want it.”

“Why don't you keep it,” Jack answered. “I think Danny would have liked that.”

C.J. held the shirt tightly, bunching it in his fist. His hands were trembling and he started to cry. Brian and Rick got very quiet for a minute or two, then Rick said, with adolescent certainty, “I know Danny's in heaven right now looking down at us and he's at peace.” This did nothing to stop C.J.'s crying and the other boys stayed quiet and still for a minute longer, except for their eyes, which darted from one to the other. Brian and Rick mouthed something to C.J., C.J. cried and clutched Danny's shirt. Rick got all fidgety while Brian glanced over at him and glanced over at C.J. Then they were hitching in their chairs, sitting forward and back like they couldn't wait to get the visit over with, all the while their eyes kept on working, Rick glancing over at Brian, Brian glancing over at C.J., who returned the shirt to the backpack and looked even more frail and mournful.

Jack realized their sadness was making them restless and his was making them uncomfortable. He was sure they could see his sorrow, that they knew how much he wanted them to sit with him. That must have been why they didn't know what to say or how to act, why they looked from one to the other. Why they didn't know how to leave. Or were they waiting for Jack to dismiss them? But Jack wasn't ready to let this small piece of Danny walk off his front porch. He wanted to invite them inside and stand with them in Danny's room and breathe the air
that had been Danny's air. But he didn't invite them inside. He only tried to find Danny in their faces and hear Danny in their voices. To see Danny in their eyes, in the jeans and T-shirts and the sneakers they wore. But all he saw were the faces of three boys who were not his sons, trying to figure out what to do next, waiting for Jack to let them go, but he kept them there a moment longer before he finally said, “Goodbye…Take care of yourselves…You know you're always welcome here…” and watched them hop on their bikes and ride down the road, further and further away from their friend and his house, leaving their childhood behind.

I
t wasn't Danny in the casket, it was only an empty body. All the things that made Danny Owens Danny Owens had been sucked out and emptied into the plastic grocery bag four days ago. The living Danny was gone, and if there were such things as spirits and souls, they were far removed from this graveside where Jack and his father, Grace, Lois and Aunt Adele stood with their mouths set tight, their heads bowed. The old man leaned on his cane with one hand and gripped Jack's hand with the other. He read from e. e. cummings and Dylan Thomas in a halting, quaking voice. Jack read from Shakespeare. They weren't crying. There had been nothing but tears last night and this morning, but here beside Danny's grave, tears were not sufficient.

The casket was lowered into the ground. Jack tossed a fistful of dirt into the grave, his father tossed another…

 

“Breathe…
breathe
…
again
. That's it.” Jack held Anne's hand. He wiped her forehead with the towel. “Easy now,” he said softly. “Keep breathing. Easy.” Anne lay on the hospital bed and screamed with each contraction. She cursed God for making her a woman. She cursed Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital and the nurse for going along with this “fucking-asinine-natural-bullshit-child-bir—Oh
shit
.” She gripped Jack's hand tighter. Jack told her to breathe with him, deeply and quickly. Anne's screaming grew louder. Anne, who had turned to him in
the Fine Arts building and literally took his breath away when they were students at Gilbert College, was now giving birth, giving breath, to their baby.

“Nice deep breaths,” Jack told her. “Nice deep breaths and…
push
.”

Anne screamed so loud it seemed she would tear her throat apart.

“Easy,” Jack said. “Breathe nice and easy. Think about the week in Eleuthera when we sang to each other in the hammock. Think about that. Okay?”

Anne screamed, her face contorted and pained.

“Think about the soothing pink light surrounding you.”

Anne only screamed.

Jack started singing, “Breathe in the good breath…Exhale the pain…”

“Oh
God
,” she cried.

“Breathe in. Breathe—”

“Fuck you.” Anne's body heaving. She screamed. Perspiration dripped off her face. “Fuck all of you. I want drugs.”

The nurse's face got tense. She whispered something to Anne. A moment later the top of the baby's head appeared, and its neck and shoulders. Anne exhaled.

“Keep pushing.”

Anne let out a loud and exhausted cry.

“Push. Push. Keep pushing and breathing. Easy…Easy…”

The nurse held up the dark-wet body, more like larva than flesh. She shook it gently into awareness. “A boy,” she announced.

Later, after the nurse had wiped the baby dry and wrapped him to keep him warm, she presented him like a little trophy, and said to Anne and Jack, “I'll leave you alone for now.” But they weren't alone, there was a baby with them, lying on Anne's chest. Jack sat on the edge of the bed and ran the back of his hand across Anne's cheek and curled his finger around the baby's tiny wrist. Anne whispered “Oh my God” as she cradled the baby against her neck and chest.

They stared at the tiny face, wrinkled and red, his body squirming so slightly, flexing his incredibly small hands. We have a baby, Jack thought, a living, breathing person; and he was overcome with the kind
of damp panic that only an irreversible act engenders.

He was Daniel Benjamin Owens on the birth certificate. It was “To Daniel Benjamin Owens” that Jack's parents toasted and his friends and colleagues toasted. But to Anne and Jack he was: The Baby. He lay on his back gurgling contentedly at the square of blue sky Anne had painted on the ceiling. He watched with alert and deep eyes all who had come to drink to his health, to his long life. “To Daniel Benjamin Owens.” But it was The Baby who Anne held in her arms. The Baby to whom Jack toasted while the three of them posed, the happy triumvirate, for the camera.

Those first weeks the loft was rarely without people eating, drinking and celebrating. Jack's parents brought a crib, toys and clothes. Aunts and uncles and cousins brought toys and clothes. Anne's staff brought toys and clothes. Jack's students and colleagues brought toys and clothes. Toys that made noises and toys that did nothing at all. Toys for next year and the year after that. Mobiles that jangled or merely sparkled in sunlight. Puppets and dolls and stuffed animals. Little red coats and blue coats and mittens for winter. Hats and pajamas and bibs and jeans. Baseball caps no wider than a teacup and football jerseys the size of a child's doll. Jack's editor brought books that squeaked and books that grew into buildings and trees. People showed up to sit and watch the baby do nothing but sleep. They stood and watched him wake and gurgle.

He was a good baby. As though he'd been in on all the discussions, as though he knew the indecisions and decisions; as though he were a visitor in his parents' home, he was determined to be the perfect little guest. He cooed when he was hungry but never cried. He slept through the night. When Jack woke in the morning, the baby slept until it was time to curl up with Anne and be fed. At night, alone, with the baby sleeping between them, Anne and Jack would marvel that anything so small could have lungs that breathed so deeply, a heart that beat so strongly, a brain that dreamed. Anne would sit in the rocking chair her father had sent from Dorset, hold the baby in her arms and feed him while Jack sat cross-legged on the floor next to them. Chopin, Brahms, played on the stereo.

Standing over the crib, Anne would run her lean finger along the
baby's smooth skin. “He's so very small,” she said, in a voice that had only to do with love. When she said, “Look at him, Jack. So fragile,” she had tears in her eyes. “So helpless,” she whispered, and lifted the baby out of the crib, held him against her heart. “He's a wonderful baby,” she said. “He's a beautiful baby,” and, turning her eyes away quickly and just for a moment, she said, softly, “Oh, Jack. I'm so happy.” And if there were any doubt in her voice that she wasn't happy, Jack hadn't heard it.

 

Except for Jack's father, Aunt Adele and Lois, none of the people who fifteen years before had brought Danny gifts and drank to his long life were there to mourn him.

“May he rest in peace,” Aunt Adele breathed against Jack's cheek. She pressed her face against his, she hugged him. She said, “It's so awful. It's just so awful.” She said Danny was a very deep boy and would be greatly missed. “It's just such a horrible loss. Terrible.” She never spoke the word
suicide.

They walked down the gravel path to the car, Jack with his father, who took small, hesitant steps, like a child, everyone else walking ahead. They passed headstones with cherubs, headstones with bouquets and names carved on them, to loving mothers, adored husbands, cherished grandfathers. Jack thought: This is no place for a boy. How far from home I've brought him; and he felt the living Danny slipping away from him.

His father said, “He was an extraordinary boy.” He held on to Jack's elbow. “I'm not saying that because he was my grandson. He was very astute—” He took several hard, forced breaths. When he spoke, his voice was painfully hoarse. “In the early days, when you and Anne used to leave him with your mother and me—he couldn't have been more than eighteen months old—we could see he had an ability, a sensitivity for figuring people out—he knew what was going on. He
understood
. You don't see that in many children, not when they're that young. You don't see it in a lot of adults either.”

“I failed him,” was all Jack said.

“Everyone failed him,” his father answered.

“It must have been there all along, and I couldn't see it. He couldn't have just woken up on Thursday morning—”

“We didn't know,” his father said with sad resignation. “We didn't know until he told us, and he told us by killing himself.” His eyes were moist, from age, from grief. “You did everything you could do. I want you to remember that.”

They walked further along the path, the old feet sliding against the gravel. The old body trembling. Across the way, dozens of mourners were gathered three deep by a family plot listening to the intonations of a minister.

Nine limousine drivers, obviously attached to the funeral, leaned against shiny black cars, smoking cigarettes, laughing softly with each other, while the bereaved commenced the obsequy. Jack's father watched the scene for a moment and held Jack's hand. His flesh was cold and smooth.

Jack said, “It happens to everyone, doesn't it? But it's not supposed to happen like this.”

“This is a miserable day. There was no one better than Danny.” His father coughed more than a few times, stopped walking and leaned one hand on his cane and the other against a stone bench. “Sit with me for a minute, Jackie,” and balanced himself on Jack's arm as they sat side by side. “We were never a religious family,” the old man said, “and it would be hypocritical to fall back on a God we don't believe in in good times, so you're going to have to have faith in yourself and your—” He coughed a few more times. “A terrible thing has happened, and you're going to live with it for the rest of your life.”

Jack nodded his head.

“I don't mean to make it sound so intellectual and didactic. It's talk, that's all. I just want to be with you for a few minutes, alone. Just the two of us.”

“Just the two of us. We're all that's left.”

They started to cry, softly. Two figures sitting on a stone bench in a cemetery, where there is never a shortage of tears. The old hand with the veins like aged roots, the thick fingers, which had never been anything but gentle, shaking against Jack's arm. Words were choked back.
It was only tears now, without resistance, without restraint. Danny's sad lifetime unfurled in Jack's mind like a piece of tapestry, only it hadn't seemed sad when Danny was living it. Jack once believed he'd done all that he could to distract Danny from the sadness—was that all it was, distraction? He once believed he'd filled in the places that were emptied when Anne left. And before Anne left. He once believed that he could undo the damage. Now there was nothing left to believe.

His father cleared his throat, wiped the corners of his mouth with thumb and forefinger. He asked, “What are you going to do when you go back?”

“I have some work to finish. Schoolwork.”

“How much?”

“What I didn't finish last week.”

“And then?”

“I don't know. I did everything else so Danny and I could spend the extra week in Maine.”

“You can't sit alone in that house all summer thinking about all the—I don't think you should spend all that time alone.”

“My friends invited me to stay with them. The ones Danny and I were going to visit.”

The old man leaned heavily on Jack's arm and stood up. “Just remember who you are, Jackie.”