“You scream until you think you are of single depth and a holding hate you fear you’ll never be able to let go of. That’s when your mother gets real quiet. You see her eyes and know it was you who put the pain there. You wait for it, knowing it is coming.”
“That what’s comin’? Sal?”
When his hand struck my cheek, it felt like the smack of a flame.
“She says you’ll never have the godliness of your father. ‘Devil!’ she screams at you. So you look at her one last time and run away because horns is all you’ll ever wear there, but somewhere else, you may be able to have the halo. Still, you hear her final word as you walk down the train tracks. Devil. You think maybe you are, and maybe you always will be. Maybe that is your permanence, your one eternity.
“As if hearing you run away, a man appears and says he has some ice cream you could run away to. You say you don’t know. He says he can tell you are the type of boy who needs something to hold onto, so he gives you a bowl and spoon.”
Sal shoved the bowl and spoon into my stomach, forcing me to take them just to get them out of my ribs.
“The man says you can go for a drive in his sparkling convertible. How can a convertible be bad, you think. They only ever drive them in advertisements when they’re selling happiness, when they’re selling a shot at a good life. You still want that shot desperately, so you take the bowl and spoon and ride in his convertible, which reminds you of the 1950s, with its polished chrome and high tailfins. You think this is what you’re supposed to do. Ride in a white convertible and drop the shadows of the farm.
“As you get closer to his house, he tells you to bend down and touch the car’s floor and count to twenty. He’s short enough to see over, so you’re not afraid, and by the time you’ve counted to twenty, you’re in his garage and from there, in his house where you see pictures of a tall woman. You ask if it’s his wife. Yes, he answers. She’s smiling in the pictures, so you think he can’t be so bad. You forget it is the camera we smile at, not the life behind.”
“I don’t like this story.” I set the bowl and spoon down on the tracks.
I thought Sal was going to slap me again. Instead he continued the story as if there could never be anything to stop it.
“The man goes into the kitchen, to get the ice cream, he says. While you wait for him, you read old newspaper clippings in the red leather scrapbook open on the table. See a woman’s face in one of the clippings, same face as in the photographs around you. You get a sinking feeling, you feel you might sink.
“When the man returns, he doesn’t have any ice cream. He has a white handkerchief. And suddenly, you can’t breathe at all.”
Sal came up behind me and held his hand over my mouth so forcibly, I thought my teeth would break.
“Just go to sleep now, boy,” Sal repeated over and over again as I struggled. His strength surprised me, and only when I elbowed him as hard as I could did he let go.
“What’s the matter with you, Sal?”
“It’s just a story, Fielding.”
A horn blared from the train approaching in the distance.
“That was a pretty messed-up story.”
“Hell’s full of all kinds of stories like that.”
He looked back at the blaring train, its smoke churning up like a way to follow. Maybe in his mind he was following that smoke up to the clouds and to the God too gold to be of any earthly help.
I went to get the bowl and spoon off the tracks, but Sal told me to leave them.
“That’s the ending of the story,” he said. “Something broken.”
Together we watched as the train roared over first the spoon and then the bowl, its broken pieces scattered to the ground.
“You know, Fielding, the thing about breaking something that no one much thinks about is that more shadows are created. The bowl when intact was one shadow. One single shadow. Now each piece will have a shadow of its own. My God, so many shadows have been made. Small little slivers of darkness that seem at once to be larger than the bowl ever was. That’s the problem of broken things. The light dies in small ways, and the shadows—well, they always win big in the end.”
18
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide
—MILTON, PARADISE LOST 4:75–77
THIS IS ME. Teeth marks here. Teeth marks there. Being eaten one bite at a time. I smell myself on my breath. Feel myself swallowed and plopped to my stomach. Clean myself out from my own teeth with a toothpick.
It was Carl Jung who said shame is a soul-eating emotion. It doesn’t eat you in one big gulp. It takes its time. Seventy-one years, it is still taking its time.
I am for my own teeth. I am for my own stomach. I alone eat myself to the dark.
It was the end of August, and me and Sal were in the woods by the tree house. There I saw a metal bucket of stones. I thought maybe Sal was building onto Granny’s grave. Then I saw the paint on the stones. I picked a few up. They all had the same image of a boat. More than that. It was a ship given the details of something grand like an ocean liner. Then the name written on the sides. SS Andrea Doria.
“What do you think?” Sal came up behind me.
I was stunned at the details of the ships and how the same image could be done over and over again without miss.
“I painted them at night, while you were sleeping.”
I dropped the stones back into the bucket. “Listen, Sal, if these are for Mr. Elohim—”
“Shouldn’t they be? All his pamphlets and meetings. He has no right to keep on me. I’ve been good. I mean, I could be bad, Fielding. I could be really bad for him, I could be the worst thing ever. But they always take away the trouble, and I want to stay.
“If only he would just be good. Then we wouldn’t have to worry about any bad he’s done or could do. You don’t have to worry about the teeth if they get filed down. And that’s all I want to do. Just file his teeth down a bit, so we can all live together.”
“You can’t throw stones at ’im, Sal.”
“It’s not skin bruises I’m after. I want to take him down from the heart. Only the Andrea Doria can do a thing like that.”
He picked up the bucket. “Would you go to the schoolhouse, Fielding? Where he holds his meetings. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
Feeling no more argument within myself, I went to the schoolhouse where Elohim and his followers were standing around a contained fire. Hunkering down behind a fallen log, I watched Elohim drop a wiggling burlap sack. The group crowded around as he opened the bag and reached inside, pulling out a garter snake similar to the one Dad had set free in the woods. The bag was full of them, and one by one, the followers grabbed their own.
By then, Sal had come along, hiding down beside me while I stared at the stone in his hand. I wondered if what we were about to do would be something we could never take back.
All eyes were on Elohim as he approached the fire with the snake in his hand, a harmless little black thing that slithered in and out of his fingers.
I’ve never forgotten the way he looked at that snake with hunger for its death. He started to chomp his teeth at it, biting large chunks of the air before swallowing big with an even bigger smile. All the while, the snake innocently twirled around his fingers, not knowing the flames were for it.
“Good-bye, boy.” Elohim tossed the snake like it was nothing.
The others followed. Snakes flying for the first time, landing in flames for the last. I closed my eyes and found another fire. One where snakes weren’t writhing in pain. One that was warming cold hands on a cold night, lighting the dark. Not one where hisses were cries. Not one that was pain slithering, trying to escape.
You could smell the foul secretion of the snakes. Mixing with that was the smell of their burning. You know the smell.
That car crash you’re passing. It smells like garter snakes burning. Th
at airplane falling from the sky. Garter snakes. A husband collapsing heart down. A woman screaming. A child hit by a car called Father. You know it all smells like snakes on fire.
“See what I mean, Fielding? Doesn’t he deserve to be punished, even just a little bit?” Sal gripped the stone in his hand until his knuckles blanched.
I nodded, repeated his own words, “You can tell a lot about a man by what he does with a snake.”
You could lose your eyes, staring at that group. At their silent twinkling. I am still surprised by the excitement in their smiles.
I was once told writing in a journal could help me. Something about putting the pain on the page. So I got one and finished it in a day. I looked back to see what I’d written. Nothing but little lines, swooping and curving. Not one word. And yet didn’t it say everything? The way their smiles did? All the dark, all the hurt, scooped up, carried by curve.
Long after the last snake burned, they continued to watch the flames, in love with fire and so certain of what they wanted burned. It was hurt for them to finally douse the flames. They grieved, watching the smoke of their beloved churn away to the sky.
It was Elohim who called them up from their knees. The meeting was over and he was handing out vegetarian recipes. They quietly received them before glancing back at the fire, wishing it still huge and bright.
When Elohim was alone and humming over the snakes’ ashes, Sal stood and announced rather quietly, “I have the Andrea Doria. I have your Helen.”
Elohim turned and stared at the ship painted on the stone Sal held up to him.
“You little—” Elohim fell into a tirade of profanity as he took chase after Sal.
I went after them, running past the nearby tree house and through scratching briars and dry blackberry bushes while a woodpecker knocked on one of the trees overhead. I didn’t know where we were running to, but I wasn’t stopping, not even when a flying squirrel glided across the path in front of me.
Flying squirrels were usually seen only in the woods at night. It was as if the squirrel was saying, Go back, Fielding, before you make a mistake. You don’t belong any further, just as I don’t belong here in the light.
At that moment, I didn’t care where I belonged. I was all legs running after two souls more entwined than any of us could ever have imagined. Isn’t that a scary thing? To be soldered, sword to sword, the battle eternal and the win never had.
I realized Sal was leading us to the river, and once there, he threw the stone into the water as he said, “Best hurry, Elohim, the Andrea Doria is sinking. Don’t let her. She won’t forgive you a second time.”
Without hesitation, Elohim threw himself into the water, paddling his short arms up in big splashes to get to the stone that had already sunk. Still he dived down, only to come right back up empty-handed and gasping for air.
“I’ll give you another chance.” Sal reached into the bucket by his feet. “See if you can save this one.”
This was how it went. Sal casting a stone. Elohim splashing to get it. Splashing more to find it before it sank. It always sank. He became stupid-faced. Eyes frantic. Mouth open. Probably slobbering as he turned his face this way and that, his cheeks seeming to bobble in each movement. A slow-motion whale caught in the fisherman’s net. Turning and twisting, trying to be free but only getting further away from that very thing.
“Sal.” I grabbed his arm. “I don’t know ’bout this.”
“I’m doing this so he’ll stop. Maybe he’ll even move away and we’ll have Breathed all to ourselves. You, me, Mom, Dad, Grand…”
It was the first time I’d heard him make my parents his own. The first time he’d spoken my brother’s name like he belonged to him too. I guess I should’ve said that was all right, because he looked down like it wasn’t. Like he could never be my brother, the third son of Autopsy and Stella Bliss.
“I just mean he’s not going to stop with me. You know that, Fielding. He’s starting to talk at those meetings about you and yours.”
Elohim was still diving below the water, unaware of anything more than the ship and the woman he was trying to save.
“I’m not telling you to hit him.” Sal placed the stone into my hand. “Just let him feel a little splash. Let him know you’re willing to fight for and protect those you love. That if he drags out this fray, he will not leave it unscathed. It’s a battle we are in, Fielding. And if a few stones can end it, wouldn’t you rather have them than a war that goes forever?”
Ready the earth for all she can spare, for it was a war, and already we had lost one on our side. Granny. Death by enemy’s poison. Wasn’t she worth a splash to his face? And what of this war? If it could be ended by a thrown stone, why not? I’d be a fool to hold out for a fire that could dare hell.
I gripped the stone and heard Grand’s voice from when he was teaching me the art of the throw.
“Head up, Fielding. Chin pointed to your target. Get your whole body workin’ together. Do you feel it now? Let me see your grip. Fingers over the top. Good. Keep it out on your fingertips now. No, Fielding, not in the back of your hand. Keep it at your fingertips. Good. Use your wrist. Don’t let it get stiff. That’s right. Now you’re ready. You’re ready, little man. Throw.”
It was a beautiful throw. The way the stone sliced through an arch down to a large splash that hit Elohim’s face.
“Hey”—I smiled—“this ain’t so bad.”
Maybe I even called Elohim a dumb midget as he dived, his feet thrashing at the surface to follow him down.
We threw stone after stone, believing with each one we were bettering the war.
But more than this. I was actually having fun doing it. I was laughing even as I said, “C’mon, Mr. Elohim. Can’t ya save at least one? Your fiancée sure would be disappointed you can’t save her. Hear her screamin’ for you, Mr. Elohim? Gosh, I sure do.”
I turned to give Sal a high five, but he was just standing there, his hands empty as he looked out on Elohim as if he were someone we should kindly pull from the water and sit with our arms around. It was then I realized I was the only one still throwing.
“When’d you stop, Sal?”
“We’ve done enough, Fielding.”
“He deserves this. Remember?”
As soon as I threw, I knew what big sins can be made from things as small as stones. When it hit his chest, it sounded like melons being ripped apart. I waited for the howl. The scream of pain. Neither came. He was quiet and still. The stone sinking in front of him. He could have saved that one. All he had to do was to reach out and put his hand under it and he would’ve saved it. But he gave it up, to look at me.
He’s still looking at me.
Every morning, I get up and think the sunrise might be beautiful. He’s looking at me and I know it’s not. Every night, I go to bed, thinking I may get some rest, but he’s looking at me and I know I won’t. The seasons may still exist, celebrations of life, but I don’t know, because he’s looking at me. Was that a joke you told? I can’t laugh, because he’s looking at me. With those gray, broken eyes saying, I loved you once. Maybe like a son. Why are you doing this to me? Why are you hurting me, Fielding?
I didn’t return to the bucket for another stone. I didn’t return to the bucket, but Sal did. He picked up a stone, the largest of them all. He gripped it tight as he moved through the water.
“You’ve saved her now.” He placed the stone into Elohim’s hand. “You can stop your crying. You’ve saved her now. No more sinking today.”
I’d never felt more like the devil. I taste the salt of that shame to this day. Teeth marks here. Teeth marks there. This is me.
19
… she for God in him.
—MILTON, PARADISE LOST 4:299
ALL LOVE LEADS to cannibalism. I know that now. Sooner or later, our hearts will devour, if not the object of our affections, our very selves. Teeth are the heart’s miracle. That a mouth should burst forth on that organ without throat and crave another’s fles
h, another’s heart, is nothing short of a miracle.
To fall in love is our species’ best adventure, and when love, in its burgeoning industry, coils sweetly around our soul, we surrender to the heart’s fang and we pray—yes, we pray—to the infinite span that all love has its fair chance, its own share of miracles. And yet the miracles seem pushed to the side when the lovers are young, as if in their youth, there seems to be an almost certain prophecy to be had.
Maybe the misfortune of young love is just the Romeo and Juliet fragments Shakespeare has left us with, or maybe it really is the voyages of fate that youth and love should burn on contact. What is it the Greek chorus sings? Something like, Young lovers are tragedy’s excuse.
I ask you now, what was the excuse of the yellow balloon? Did it escape from celebration? Was it the bloated announcement of a birthday, a wedding, a day at the fair? Is a child to be blamed for its wandering way?
Was it God, Devil, or wind that blew it upon release? Was it God, Devil, or tree that decided it should motor between branches, waiting for us in its harmless ruse?
I must first tell of the day that sparked the possibility of Sal and Dresden ending up together, for always and ever.
That day started by me and Sal throwing water balloons. It’d been my idea, but I had to stop. It reminded me too much of that day at the river. It would be throwing the stone’s spirit from then on out.
“We shouldn’t have filled ’em anyways.” I stepped on the remaining balloons until they burst. “Dad would be angry if he knew. We’re supposed to be conservin’ water.”
By the end of August, the heat had made more of a mess. The farmers lost their cash crops due to the drought, and the number of livestock continued to dwindle. Thankfully, the flies had been controlled by a recent spraying of pesticide. While at first the flies were blamed on Sal, they were actually traced to an infestation at an egg farm in the next town.
The Summer That Melted Everything Page 20
