Lightning People (45 page)

 

DOES IT HELP to tear the world down before you go? To show what little there was to love in it and what unhappiness you found therein? Does that make the leaving easier? Aleksandra bent over Joseph in her bed. Her cold hands smoothed his cheeks, as atoms of dust swam through the cleft of light that broke from the closed curtains. She asked him—without a trace of sarcasm—an indecent question while he lay dressed in an indecent three-piece suit: if he died, what would he miss most?

“I'm not going to answer that,” he said, folding his hands resolutely on his chest. But the macabre game had already started to play in his head so he answered to humor her. “Travel. Going places I never got around to visiting.”

“You'll miss places you haven't been? That's a bit of a contradiction, isn't it?” she said. “You'll miss airports, vacuums of time. Is it possible for anyone to love an airport waiting lounge?”

“No, I mean the getting there. I always wanted to see Istanbul. The flood of the Bosporus pouring around the boats. The clamor of markets.”

Aleksandra shook her head. “Tourist traps smelling of goat shit and German BO. And that awful whine vibrating out of mosque speakers calling everyone to prayer. It's a constant headache, that city.”

“Okay, the Amazon. The Pyramids in Giza. The reefs cutting through the blue waters off Tulum.”

“Malaria. Terrorist targets. Overfed tourists bubbling around just to startle the last tropical fish. Is that really the best you can do? You've lived for thirty-four years, Joseph. Give me something with teeth.”

Her voice held out the challenge in the same manner that acting coaches used to implore him to deliver a line with more “gut,” and Joseph searched for a better impersonal answer. A personal answer would cost him too much.

“Dreaming then,” he replied. “I'll miss dreaming. Sleep.”

She shook her head again. “Here lies Joseph Guiteau in the position he liked best.”

“Alcohol. Getting slowly drunk as the sun dips. Feeling all worry spin away along with your balance.”

“An evil drug with diminishing returns,” she sermonized, lying down next to him to stare up at the same patch of ceiling. “We all would have been stronger people with less of it. Are you really going to miss being reduced to nonsense?”

“Sex.”

“If it were ever really fulfilling, its greatest practitioners wouldn't come off as starved.”

“Jesus.”

“Is that an answer or just commentary?”

“Revolution, then,” he improvised, propping his head on his elbow. “Group dissatisfaction amassing in the street.”

“Which one were you ever part of? They're a nasty, nasty business.”

“Movies. Books. Poetry.
Bad poetry
. Liking the things you know are junk. Consuming junk and smiling. Junk for junk's sake.”

“Commercials?” she suggested. “The ones you starred in? How about those? I'll place them in the time capsule. You really want them remembered?”

The chess game went on this way, each answer immediately and unequivocally devaluated like bad stock, as Joseph offered the smell of rosemary and the first cracks of dawn after a sleepless night, salted steaks, certain nineteenth-century paintings, Gandhi, wildlife
documentaries, the ghost of the moon on summer days, even a grating Irish comedian known for vulgar pop shots about the female anatomy. To all of these vague, sacrosanct submissions, he received an instant critique of their non-meaning in the growing whirlpool of abysmal fluff. He went for high roads.

“I guess I should say children. Children. But I didn't get around to having any.”

The answer produced a grunt. Aleksandra drove an instinctive arm against her belly and rotated on her side.

“That's the go-to answer. I'm afraid I can't go to it either. Do you think you care more about the future of the planet if you've unleashed your chromosomes onto it? I wonder. Kids are a safe bet, though. Kindness is good. Loving others, it's hard to dispute that.”

“How about falling in love?”

Aleksandra laughed. “More nostalgia, the worst, most malicious strain.” She stroked his cheek with her knuckles in consoling condescension, and her eyes hardened like she was dispensing some sage advice to the obstinately naive. “You're trying to get back to those first times, chasing after the original high. And the older you get the more you find you're just acting, and the part is a little less dignified and more unbearable each rehearsal. You're an actor. You must know what it's like not to believe your own lines.” Joseph was genuinely surprised by Aleksandra's critique. Hadn't it been love that kept her writing the pages of her script, trying to rescue her husband in words after he could no longer be rescued from life? She slipped her fingers under the lapel of the coat. Her fingertips softly followed the curve of his ribs through the wool vest.

“I'm out of answers,” he said wearily. “You have such a delicate way of making it all sound so cheap. I didn't realize you hated the world so much.”

“Hate the world,” she repeated lovingly. She buried her face into his chest and then resurfaced. He could see the plumbing of blue veins traced around her eyes and the corrugated networks of wrinkles on either side of her mouth. They had not kissed again and had not spoken of it, but ever since that brief, inexplicable moment of affection passing between them, Aleksandra had become more solid
and substantial. She was no longer the fragile woman who spoke in a quiet monotone as if always on the point of disappearance. Her hands continually rushed to keep hold of him as if to prove that he were still in the room with her, and he could imagine her as the woman she must have once been before her husband had been killed. The fear and paranoia that had clung to her in all of those weeks seemed distant like a bout of sickness. Maybe Aleksandra had just been lonely after all, trapped in a past that wouldn't let her touch it, and she had accepted that loss as a permanent condition. Her need to touch him came like a sudden panic as if she wanted to ensure that she was no longer stuck in this hotel room, or this city, all alone. Joseph had not mentioned the letter she had received and neither had she. Maybe it was possible simply to forget. Maybe forgetting was the only rational way to deal with the past.

Aleksandra blew a scant hair from her eyes and twisted on her side. “But really what is there?” she asked, stretching her neck until the wine-glass birthmark lengthened to a scarlet arrow. “What is so wonderful that makes forty more years of living worthwhile? You should just be happy with what you had. If we've achieved anything over animals, it should be a little comprehension that the triumph of existence isn't simply surviving as long as you can. We'll be forgotten, all of the beauty and difficulties will be wiped out of memory, and the struggle will all have proved . . . what? Food, sex, and vacations? Like our lives are postcards we send off to people who barely bother to read them when we die?” She shook her head and rolled over to let her jaw rest on his shoulder. He knew that she was tearing the world down for his benefit, and maybe Aleksandra was as aware as he was of how unconvincing she was at playing this part. Forgetting wasn't an option. Aleksandra had already made it too clear that she was not the kind of person who could let go easily. Still, he pressed his hand over hers to thank her for trying.

“Okay, my final answer is Ohio.” Before she could argue, Joseph heard the hesitant knock of the cleaning women at the door of the outer room, the slide of the card key in its sheath, and the whine of the supply cart as its wheels rolled over the carpet. Their job was to make the place look as uninhabited as possible, to clean up people's
messes until even the boarders returned to find a room that wasn't their own. And that, of course, was a hotel room's principle beauty. The Carlyle was limbo, beautiful, antiseptic nowhere, where life could go on not living itself out. It was the space-time equivalent of a hold button, and that's why Joseph had learned to feel so ecstatically not at home here.

“I'll get rid of them,” Aleksandra said, crawling across the bed. There was one obvious answer that would have stopped the game with a single word. He could have added Del to the inventory, the one person whom he had rushed out of his life to marry and keep hold of when he could barely keep hold of himself, for a little while at any rate, for long enough to imagine that kicking violently would do any good. That's what love is, he thought, kicking violently, getting off of the world that won't let you go.

“I want to change my answer,” he said, when Aleksandra returned.

“Which one?”

“All of them.”

She stood over him, the lightness of her face collapsing into worry. Her eyes were as dark as footprints in day-old snow. She pressed her fingers against the shoulders of the wool suit—Ray Andrews's three-piece suit with its gray vest buttoned across his abdomen, the jacket splayed open to reveal its purple silk lining, and his bare feet snaking out of the tailored cuffs. He had done that for Aleksandra, put on one of the suits that belonged to her husband so she could see it filled again. She said it brought her comfort, even if it were an ersatz Ray lying there with his mind on another wife. She climbed over him on the bed.

“You do look like him a little bit,” she whispered. She squinted as she stared down at him, perhaps to trick herself into seeing Ray below her. “You breathe the same way, out of your mouth instead of your nose. I can remember it now.”

There were two days to his birthday. Sex, malaria, children, praying Muslims—that's what the world was screaming with and none of it would be missed. He buttoned the jacket to fight a chill. Aleksandra smiled. There was still time for kindness. He would do that for her. He'd give her some comfort even if it wouldn't last.

ON A JUNE day
in 1978, Trip is shingling the roof of a neighborhood bungalow, and the temperature is steaming past 103. There has been some fight among the workers, mostly Harley drivers with tattoos and ponytails and with kids living with ex-girlfriends' relatives. There was a radio playing Bob Seger that one of the workers kicked off the roof. Trip tells everyone to take an hour off to cool down. He drives back to the house on his lunch break, parks his truck in the driveway, strips to his underwear in the upstairs bathroom, and removes his teeth. He dives into the pool.

 

THEY WEAR BLACK
. They sing in the front row of St. Mary's, “Amazing Grace” and “Here I Am, Lord,” and they follow a coffin that looks too small to hold a man as big as Trip Holbly. The hot June air scorches the church grass the color of rust.