A solution presented itself, in the form of a surfacing undercurrent. His name was Mallory and he was a cop. His face was a swirl of scar tissue, having been smashed against the wall at the corner of Desolate and Unrequited two years before. Coming from Mallory the solution was so literal-minded as to be, in the current situation, imaginative. Etcher would voluntarily give himself over to the authority of the police and travel north in the company of several officers, who would present papers signed by the prisoner to anyone challenging their jurisdiction. Mallory volunteered for the assignment not out of a devotion to duty nor even to slavishly impress the priests (as was Mallory’s wont), but because he was convinced that Etcher would lead him to Sally Hemings, and that in turn would lead to the man who had obliterated his face and then disappeared off the face of the earth like a trolley car or displaced obelisk or a message on the wall.
Sitting in a church hospital for months picking the scabs off what used to be a nose, Mallory had had plenty of time to figure this out. It was obvious the big black called Wade had gone off the deep end for Sally Hemings the minute he laid eyes on her. He’d made certain she understood she was looking at a murder rap and then cut a deal with her, probably that afternoon in the car driving her out to her circle after springing her loose from jail. He probably pointed out to her how she now owed him everything and how everything was exactly what he wanted; then he spent several days putting together a plan, jumping a train or boat out of the city an hour after he’d left Mallory crumpled in the alley, heading north where he’d been waiting for her all this time. This guy Etcher wasn’t anything to the Hemings woman but a connection on the inside, a glorified file clerk who fell under her spell just like Wade and could get her out of town. Now she was stiffing Etcher: Mallory knew this because the police read the fucking mail. Now she was saying she wanted to be alone.
Mallory knew that Wade and the Hemings woman were up there together right now. They had figured the priests would never let Etcher go, and they were almost right; what they didn’t figure was how smart Mallory was. They just never figured, Mallory said to himself, what a smart guy I am. Now they were in for a big surprise. Now let’s see Wade try to hide, up there in all that fucking Ice.
At first it was a trick of the wind, the smell of the smoke. In all the years Etcher had lived in the city he had never smelled the smoke of the lava fields, the wind from the southwest blowing the wine of the sea through the streets and in turn the smell of the smoke north. Now he was heading north on the train, in the company of a police entourage. They had seized half a car for his transport. In the dank light of the train one cop sat in the seat across from him, another in the seat behind him, another by the door nearest him and the fourth right next to him. The one next to him was the cop who had come to take him off to Central the time Sally was sick. One didn’t forget him. His name was Mallory and his nose was missing and the whole bottom of his face lurched upward into a scar; it was sometimes impossible to be sure what he was saying, words leaking out of various orifices in the front of his head like the sea that sprayed up through fissures of the earth along the coast or the Vog that rose from the lava fields. The chains that the cops called a rosary bound Etcher to Mallory by one wrist and to his seat by the other. In the pitch of night, whenever one man slumped into sleep, the slip of his hand would yank the other man awake, and this went on until the dawn, each man falling asleep in time to wake the other man. When Etcher needed to use the toilet Mallory accompanied him. When his heavy new glasses fell from his face into his lap, he had to wait until the cop in the seat across from him put them back on.
It was in the middle of the night that Etcher smelled the smoke. The smell began unpleasantly enough but then, no matter how far behind the train left the black fields, it got worse. It went from a distinct unpleasantness to a horrific stench, and it was then that Etcher knew the smoke wasn’t a trick of the wind anymore, it was a trick of the soul, and there was no tricking the soul back. It was then he knew this wasn’t just the smell of the volcano but the smell of what waited for him, a moment far north to which his whole life rushed. This was the very smell of his odyssey into the black and it was the smell of the end, of something dead in him that was caught in this particular crevice of time and wasn’t to be dislodged, but would go on decaying just beyond his reach, just beyond his capacity to work it loose from where it was caught and grasp it and hurl it out of his life forever. When the smoke grew unbearable, when he was afraid he was either going to suffocate or vomit where he sat, he lunged for the train window to open it, jerking Mallory so hard from the slumber that hissed from the various punctures of his face that the cop believed Etcher was trying to escape. Mallory yelled a strange strangled yell. “My God, that smoke!” Etcher cried. The other cops jumped to their feet, subduing Etcher and wrestling him back into his seat. “Please, open the window,” Etcher begged them, and the smoke grew so powerful in his lungs, and his hands were so restrained by the rosaries, that he would have crashed his face through the glass of the window in order to get some air.
Mallory raised his fist to level a blow at Etcher. He stopped only at the last moment, the other cops yelling because the priests had made it clear Etcher was to come back in one piece. “Open the window,” Mallory muttered, lowering his arm. They opened the window. But what came through the window wasn’t fresh air but a new billow of smoke, like the smell of someone being burned alive. “No, close it,” Etcher moaned, now trying to find his glasses which had fallen off.
After six days, only twenty minutes from his home town, Etcher suddenly knew, with a calm utterly mysterious to him, that his father was dead.
He knew he would reach his home and his mother would be waiting for him in the doorway, and she would say, “He’s gone.” And that was exactly how it happened. They came to his old house on a back road of the village, Etcher in chains with his police guard, Mallory opening the front door for him without knocking. Etcher stepped in to see his mother standing there as though she’d been waiting for him. Two other women were in the room crying. For a moment Etcher’s mother was bewildered by the police and the rosary, but then she just said, “He’s gone,” the way he knew it would happen; he’d died only half an hour before, at the moment Etcher knew it. The son held the mother, Mallory hovering over them obscenely by the dictates of the chains. After another moment the doctor came out of the back room. “He’s still back there in bed if you want to go see him,” his mother said. “He looks like he’s sleeping.”
He did not look like he was sleeping. Etcher and Mallory went into the back bedroom and Etcher’s father was propped up on the pillows in bed, and he looked like he was dead. Every impulse of life had fled his face, which was the color of sand; his mouth was slightly open. Perhaps if he’d looked as though he were sleeping, Etcher might have remained to say something to him. He might have said goodbye, for instance; he had thought, on the train in the smoke, of the things he might say, but there didn’t seem anything that had to be reconciled. Wasn’t there always something that had to be reconciled? Wasn’t there always some final breach to be bridged between parent and child, particularly when they’re so different, when Etcher knew his father had long before stopped trying to identify the ways in which his son refused to live between the incandescence to one side of him and the abyss to the other, attempting instead to straddle both, to place one foot in each? Etcher was filled with regret not that there was something he hadn’t had the chance to say to his father, but that his father might have needed to say something to him. When, at the sight of his father’s body, Etcher brought his hand to his mouth with a gasp, he pulled Mallory into the gesture like a marionette.
What Etcher most dreaded now wasn’t the smoke of his father’s cremation. What he dreaded was that the billow of the crematorium would be something entirely different from the smoke he had known for the past six days, something purer and conveying a color of the earth, and then there would be forced upon Etcher the realization that the dark smo
ke that had pursued him from the city was something else. There was no ceremony. Later Etcher was vaguely troubled by this lack of ritual, though he wasn’t sure why, since all three of them in his family had always hated ritual, and the manner of his father’s death was therefore in keeping with the spirit of his life. Over the days that followed, Etcher became enraged by the chains. He threatened to intentionally hurt himself. “I’ll rip my hands off,” he told Mallory. “You can explain to them in Central how I’m supposed to return their precious books with my hands ripped off.”
The whole time Etcher was with his mother, however, Mallory didn’t take off the chains. He didn’t take off the chains until several days later, when Etcher went to see Kara.
The observatory was as good as a prison, Mallory figured. It was made of stone, with no windows, and only a single set of double doors on the northwest side. The only other way to leave the dome, as far as Mallory could see, was to jump from the top; he didn’t really think Etcher was going to risk that. He knew Etcher wasn’t going to risk anything before getting to Sally Hemings. So at the observatory he took the rosary off, more because he was getting sick of it himself than out of consideration for Etcher, for whom he had no consideration one way or the other. The other cops waited outside the door and Mallory patrolled the dome’s stone circumference, just for good measure.
As they had approached the dome, Etcher didn’t smell the smoke at all, only the surrounding trees and the bite of the air. He had nearly gotten to the doors of the observatory when they opened suddenly and she presented herself, as though to take the offensive against time and confront both of them with the ways in which time had deformed them. Her hair was shorter. She was a little heavier, and older of course. He wore the glasses—if not the same pair—that had so appalled her that last night. He hadn’t come to answer anything between them, and he’d brought no questions. Perhaps he wouldn’t have come at all if he hadn’t believed the smoke was the pyre of everything else ending.
He knew Kara smelled her own smoke. He felt, in the grip of her hand as they sat beneath the opening of the dome looking up at the sky, the desperation he recognized as someone smelling smoke. As calmly as Kara pretended to receive him back into her life, he recognized the way everything was tinged with this desperation: it was all around him in the trappings of a rendezvous, in how she would have taken off her clothes and lain naked beneath the night as she had once before if she hadn’t believed it would send him running from her. They talked. He told her, in terms he hoped were explicit enough to warn her but implicit enough to protect what was private, about Sally. She told him, in terms she hoped would obviously belie her assurance that she expected nothing of him, about what had happened to the sky. It had changed. She had looked up one night a couple of months before and had noticed it immediately. It was just after that dusk which everyone crosses sooner or later, when their remaining days recede before them and solitude suddenly reveals itself to be ghastly and endless. She looked up and it was a different sky. It had different quadrants and different stars. There were different worlds and new mortifying suns. Tonight she clung to Etcher, and to what he couldn’t give beyond some requisite tenderness that he would have owed to anyone, but especially her.
When she slept, he lay in the dark of the observatory staring up at its concrete shell, and on the inside of the dome watched all his memories. They were big and in color, and roared out of so many years before in details he would have thought forgotten beyond the possibility of remembrance. He reveled in the luxury of being able to raise his hands to his eyes without the shackles of the rosary, and take off his glasses and cover his eyes, hiding his face away from the light of the memories on the observatory dome. To his astonishment and horror he found himself silently calling his wardens outside to come drag him away. It seemed that, for once, Mallory took forever. In the dark Etcher whispered to Kara. “It’s time to go,” and had to pry her hands loose from his neck.
“My father is dead” was the first thing he said to Sally when he saw her. Etcher and the cops had continued north across the expanse of the Ice, the trees disappearing and the terrain becoming bleaker and whiter until there was nothing but endless winter, somewhere near the top of the world. The fjord where she lived was jagged and stark. Over its cliffs, which encircled her house, rolled the clouds, each releasing another. At the edge of the fjord gorges cut their way through the earth; the bottoms were filled with water and in the distance there trickled across the ice veins of blue light. A vague gray solstice tumbled across the sky. Polly was the first to see Etcher when he arrived; she ran toward him yelling his name until she got close enough to notice the chains around his wrists. She looked at him confused, not sure whether something was wrong with him or whether she had done something wrong and the chains were somehow for her. When she saw next to him the man with no face, she cried. She turned and ran back toward the house.
“My father is dead,” he said, not yet sure whether he had left the death of his father behind him or brought it with him, or whether he had stashed it in the snow somewhere along the way, to be preserved and recovered later. The abrupt gasp Sally gave might as easily have been to the news as to the sight of him. She was flooded with emotion to see him. She had missed him utterly. In the midst of the precious aloneness she had hoped to find, even with her child and the father of her child in the same house, she had still missed him. She had written him not to come in part because she knew that if she saw him again she might not be strong enough to be alone without him.
He knew this too, though it didn’t much mitigate his rage. He was alive with indignation over her betrayal. He was still sorting out the matter of responsibility for the fact of his life having become a shambles. The shambles was all the more devastating for the promise of two years before, when his affair with her had begun; he remembered the moment of resolution when he’d left Tedi, ruthless in insisting on his right to be happy. He’d been so certain everything was within his control. Now nothing was in his control. He stood in the middle of Sally’s bedroom that was to have been his own as well, facing her and chained to a cop who made little children cry at the sight of him, the father of her child in the room upstairs lying in front of the window that Etcher had dreamed of lying in front of, watching the sky and glaciers gliding past that Etcher had dreamed of watching; and everything couldn’t help but seem ridiculous, everything couldn’t help but appear as though it had come flying back in his face, in return for his having tempted the absurdity of life by thinking he had any power over it. It was just like Etcher to wonder if this humiliating result hadn’t been in the cards all along. He believed just enough in the retribution of destiny to wonder if this place to which he’d now come wasn’t the natural price to be paid for every mistake and every resignation, for every brutal truth, every broken heart.
It was a wonderful house. It made everything worse, that it was a wonderful house, because on first sight of it his deepest dream took on dimensions, took on the form of stone and wood, walls and doors, crossbeams and rafters. His deepest dream rose with the staircase that ascended the middle of the house to the upper room and panorama that swept before its western wall. In the southern wall was a door that led out onto the roof of the lower floor. Outside, next to the door, was a ladder. The ladder led up onto the roof of the upper floor, and on the upper floor the world spilled out at the roof’s edges, north and east and south and west, in a rush so huge and elemental that even when the winds were still one was afraid of being swept off by the sight of it. Goodbye, one automatically whispered to everything on top of that house, where everything was too big for one to really know whether it was a farewell to the world or to what one believed or to the sheer delusion that, standing on top of the world, one was important at all. It seemed an act of preposterous arrogance to stand on top of such a house with the world thundering down in its blue yowl; and that was the greatest lost dream of all, the loss of that preposterous arrogance, because it was the arrogance of someone in t
he grip of love’s power, and Etcher knew he wasn’t that powerful anymore.
He begged Mallory to chain him to Sally’s bed.
Mallory complied, not as a favor to Etcher but because he had to find Wade. He knew Wade was there. He knew Wade was hiding beneath the stairs or in some back room. He had begun looking for him as soon as they stepped off the train in the little station twenty-five miles away; he’d asked around in the tiny village. All the way by bus across the desolation of the Ice up to the house, he’d had his eyes peeled for the logical hiding places. But there were no hiding places. There was only ice. When the little girl cried at the sight of him out in the snow and ran back to the house, Mallory hurried behind her pulling Etcher and the other cops along, convinced the kid would tip Wade off and give everything away. Mallory rosaried Etcher to Sally Hemings’ bed and ran halfcrazed throughout the house, flinging open closet doors and shoving aside furniture under the rather bemused gaze of Gann Hurley, who was waiting for Sally to bring him his lunch and clean the bathroom and wash the dishes and make his bed. The cop with no face turned the house upside down until he finally reached the top room and the ladder outside. Staring up the ladder, he knew there was no other place for Wade to go. He knew he had him trapped. This frightened Mallory because, confronted with this moment, he was alone; and he didn’t want to meet Wade alone. He called down to the other cops, who couldn’t hear him. He screamed until he was hoarse and finally one by one they came outside the house to look up at Mallory on the roof of the first floor. “I’ve got him!” Mallory cried, pointing up the ladder to the very top of the house. The cops, looking at the top of the house from the ground, couldn’t see anyone: “There’s no one there,” one of them yelled up to Mallory, who ignored him, squawking from every open blister of his head until the other cops came back into the house and up the stairs and out onto the roof of the first floor. “One of you stays here,” Mallory said, “and the other two follow me,” and he started slowly up the ladder step by step until he reached the very top. When the other cops heard his scream they panicked, believing Mallory had found Wade after all. They didn’t know that Mallory was crying at the sight of the world, at the sight of the streaming red sky, at the sight of time cascading toward him in rapids.
ARC D’X Page 20
