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Men In Black
Scott Spencer
for Celeste
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
A BIOGRAPHY OF SCOTT SPENCER
CHAPTER
1
I AM AN EARLY RISER. DAYLIGHT AND A SENSE OF ALL THAT I have left undone pull me from sleep, and once I have parted the dark curtain there is no going back. Sometimes I patrol the house, in some vague way protecting my loved ones. Sometimes I watch the children sleep. But more often, perhaps, than I should, I roll next to my wife, Olivia, and court her sleeping body.
This morning, I had awakened from dreams of sex, and with full prior knowledge I would not be winning any popularity contests with this gesture, I nevertheless turned toward Olivia and pulled her close. She wore a cotton nightgown, ankle length; she took care to keep herself warm, even wore socks to bed. That used to drive me crazy, but now I sort of liked it; there was something a little wonderful about making love to a woman who was wearing kelly-green mid-calf socks.
Olivia’s nightgown had responded to the static electricity of our flannel sheets and hiked itself up during the night. Her loins presented themselves to me, scalding. I kissed her forehead, stroked her hair. Tenderness was in a sense a disguise for lust, but I felt it, too; it was a lie I meant.
“Olivia?” I whispered.
“What time is it?”
“I dreamed about you, all night.”
She opened one porcelain-blue, bloodshot eye. Her hair was in her face; a few strands of it had gotten stuck into the moisture at the corner of her wide, pale mouth. She had dark brown hair, thick, Jewish, like my mother’s, though that was the only physical similarity between the two women. Olivia was tall, ivory, barely breasted, while my mother had been short, full, gnarled—put a black dress on her and she would have looked like one of those Sicilian widows on Mulberry Street.
“I want to sleep,” Olivia said, her voice an untuned cello.
A few months ago, Olivia had calculated that in our sixteen years of marriage, I had deprived her of an average of two hours of sleep a night, totaling 11,688 hours since the first night of our honeymoon in Mexico, which came to 1,461 full nights of sleep. “You’ve deprived me of about four years of sleep,” she’d said, “and that doesn’t even count when we were dating.”
“‘Dating’? We never dated. I hate that word.”
Because Olivia and I wanted a bit of erotic privacy (or at least I did), our son, Michael, who had always been a little sexually curious about us, now slept as far from our bedroom as our old Colonial house would accommodate. A warm breeze rattled the thick, glazed windows and I walked down the second-floor corridor, going from east to west, past our daughter’s room, who slept deeply, innocently, and who could not be kept too far from us because, even at nine, she still sometimes awakened in the middle of the night and came looking for us. Then I went down a half-set of stairs that led to a dead-end landing, once a maid’s room and now our son’s.
The early light touched the glass of the wall sconces; the glass rims of the shades shone red. My lamps, my sunlight, mine, mine, I thought. After a lifetime of renting, I was amazed to own anything.
The walls recently had been decorated with family photographs (it had been Olivia’s response to Michael’s withdrawing from us): snapshots from birthday parties, mementos of family vacations, all standard nuclear-family memorabilia, though several mornings ago I had noticed something askew in several of them—my gaze was on Olivia, and Michael’s was, too, while Olivia herself and little Amanda looked at whoever was taking the picture.
I opened Michael’s bedroom door slowly, trying to keep the old hinges silent. His room’s one window faced west, where only a neighbor’s silty pond reflected the sunrise, and so Michael was still swathed in darkness. I stood there, barely breathing, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. His room had been sliding into disorder for weeks, perhaps months. Clothes were strewn over the floor, where they commingled with candy wrappers, cellophane ripped from CD packages, and pennies, bottle caps, broken pencils, and those nihilistic, somehow arty comic books which he collected and never allowed me to criticize. “You do your kind of book and they do theirs,” he’d say, but he clearly believed that the creators of X-Men and Lobo were operating with some greater integrity than his father. (He also believed these comic books were, or would be, worth a fortune, while my own work, clearly, couldn’t even keep us in New York City, where Michael still longed to live.)
He was not terribly interested in what I wrote, read, or listened to on the stereo. That was fine with me—he could find his own culture. And he had never seemed like a child who took after me in very many ways: my feelings ran toward the sentimental, whereas Michael was empirical; I tried to get along with people, but he was a frustrated leader, a leader without followers, who had quit more games than he had won. When he was very young, we used to be able to share the first light together. On holiday by the ocean, we lay on the black cool sand and watched the stars gradually fade from the sky. At home in New York, we walked to a nearby bakery and ate the freshly baked croissants, the insides still warm, like pudding in our mouths. But when he got to be about ten he began sleeping late. On school days we had to rouse him out of bed, and on weekends he was a corpse.
Even in poky little Leyden, population four thousand, he slept with a pillow over his head—a nocturnal behavior learned in Manhattan, where he had to sleep through a constant cacophony. This morning the pillow had shifted and tottered and I could see his face pressed into the weave of his white bed linens. His mouth and nose were pushed to one side, as if his face were putty. He slept with one knee raised and the fingers of his hand wrapped around the slats of his pine headboard like the grip of a prisoner around the bars of his cell. He slept in his clothes, and often would not change them for days: he kept his aroma close to him to lessen anxiety, to create a wall behind which he remained private, like a ghetto kid walking through a hostile middle- class neighborhood with a boom box howling on his shoulder.
Michael’s grievances against me, though painful to me, who longed to be liked, had generally been predictable, manageable—he faulted my temper, my unfairness, strictness, quack quack quack. But since our move to Leyden, he had come to romanticize his life back in New York, misremembering it in ways that accused me of plucking him from Paradise. Michael’s rendition of life in the city included only the highlights, stitched together in a way that made it appear that the Pearl Jam concert, Eddie Rosenberg’s birthday party at the Hard Rock Cafe, Carol Tang’s appearing at our door one evening because her parents weren’t home and she’d lost her keys, and a steam pipe exploding beneath Perry Street, which reduced us to candlelight for three days, had all occurred in one blissful burst, one event after the other, with no longueurs between.
I crept closer to him. He was still small enough for my hand to fit over the top of his head like a yarmulke. “Want to make a slop omelette?” I asked, not altogether softly. But he slumbered on, great oceanic waves of unconsciousness rolling over him.
Those slop omelettes came from better times than these. When Michael was six and Amanda was still in her crib, we cooked together on the weekends, prepari
ng breakfast in bed for the love of our lives, Olivia. Michael would stand on his Woody Woodpecker stool next to the stove in our cramped and sunless Perry Street kitchen. A slop omelette might contain cheese or salami, olives or green peppers; it might, when Michael called the shots, even have a gumdrop or two. As he grew older, his techniques became more sophisticated, if not his taste. He learned how to pour a stripe of Hershey’s syrup down the spine of the finished omelette and then stick the whole thing beneath the broiler for a moment or two, and he also developed the theory that if you put any citrus fruit into the eggs it would cut down on the cholesterol by fifty percent.
And then, one day when he was about thirteen, we presented Olivia with her Saturday breakfast in bed and we sat perched on either side of her while she ate. Michael talked to her about something he had seen on TV—he liked the old shows, the dumb comedies thirty years old, which seemed interesting and ironic to him, relics of the past— and then he happened to notice that my hand rested in the no-man’s-land of burgundy blanket between the spread of his mother’s legs. His face colored; his eyes turned to ice. He felt the casualness and the constancy of my access to Olivia as a door slamming in his face. It was not the last time we made breakfast together, but soon after that the ritual began to falter and fade, which was somehow a more painful demise—I kept thinking those slop omelettes might kick in again.
I left him there, asleep. Looking back on it now, I cannot help but wonder what might have changed if I’d simply torn the covers off of him, lifted him in my arms with the strength I still had, and—and? And what? I was filled with the mere preludes to solutions. I had a dozen ways of saying “Now listen here…,” but I had nothing after that.
I walked down the corridor, past the faintly unreal family photos, and down the steps. Like most old houses, this one whispered to me whenever I was alone: “You could spend fifty thousand dollars fixing me up and no one would ever know.”
I went to the kitchen. It still smelled of last night’s fish- and-broccoli dinner—having such a large kitchen had made us a bit lax about cleaning up, just as having an extra room had decreased our will to patch up little marital disputes. I took the teakettle off of the electric stove and shook it to see if any water was left in it. Having my own house, heating it myself, assuming responsibility for its repair and upkeep, drawing water out of my own well, had revealed in me unexpected compulsions toward frugality (which I could more or less disguise as ecological awareness). The kettle was empty, and I held it beneath the tap and listened as the water thundered in. I turned up the thermostat to a bearable sixty-two and then sat at the table and stared out the window.
Now that we lived in the country and the sky (rather than that dome of smoke and light that capped Manhattan) seemed a part of our life, I often looked up at it—for signs of weather, to try and remember the names of the different kinds of clouds, to watch the migrations of the birds, and to see if alien spacecraft might be in the area. This last, admittedly foolish, preoccupation was a product of (yet another) book I had recently published, under a pseudonym. The book was called Visitors from Above, and it was a basic, standard primer on UFOlogy, with one added feature, encouraged by my publisher: near the end, the book stoops to prophecy, boldly predicting that by the end of the millennium the earth will be visited by dozens and perhaps even hundreds of beings from Deep Space. I wrote the book because I couldn’t make a living writing what I would like to and I didn’t have the financial cushion to even dare. The meager advance they gave me for Visitors from Above was the bird in the hand, and the novel I would have liked to attempt and which, if it succeeded, might bring me a decent wage and a little respect, was mere faint twittering in a very thorny bush. And though writing Visitors did not convert me to the UFO religion, it did leave me with a fantasy of escape. Wouldn’t it be something if a silver obelisk descended through the trees beyond my kitchen window, the rays of its landing lights pouring down like organ music through the early-morning fog? I had a wife and two children sleeping upstairs—and now, suddenly, the teakettle began to scream—but there were times when my life felt so hollow, so insubstantial that being abducted and whisked to the edge of the galaxy seemed every bit as good an idea as going through a second forty years as the man I was.
I lifted the kettle off the stove and its whistle faded within it, like the sound of a siren getting further and further away.
No spacemen took me away. The morning passed and by noon Amanda was at dance class, Olivia was out scouting attics and barns in her new capacity as a buyer for a New York antiques dealer, and I had driven Michael the five miles into town for his weekly appointment with his therapist, Bruce Pennyman. Pennyman did not inspire confidence, at least not mine; but the town’s senior shrink, an old snob called Bronson Cavanaugh, who wore tweeds and had the demeanor of one of those drawing-room psychologists in an Agatha Christie mystery, was reputed to be pill happy. Half his young patients ended up on antidepressants, and quite a few ended up in the formerly grand river houses that were now private psychiatric hospitals. Pennyman might not be state-of-the-art when it came to psychotherapy, but his not being a medical doctor meant he could not give Michael drugs, and he was also unlikely to refer Michael to a hospital. All I wanted was for Michael to grow up, get to college.
I parked the car in the lot behind the bank and walked with Michael toward Pennyman’s office. We had been wordless in the car—he had his mother’s dexterity with silences, could texture them, make them spin like tops.
“I’m going to run a few errands while you talk to Pennyman,” I said to Michael. The sun seemed to tilt forward like a face over a crib.
“Talking to Pennyman,” he said, shaking his head. “Some conversation.”
“It’s not supposed to be like an everyday conversation.”
“What do you know about it? Have you ever seen a psychiatrist?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Well, you should.” He looked at me for the first time all day. I was surprised by the lack of anger in his expression. He seemed to be scrutinizing me.
We were walking through Leyden’s complex of ball fields—baseball diamonds with their generous backstops, football fields with H’s in the end zone, soccer fields with their goals shaped like immense oxygen masks, all of it orbited by a cinder jogging track like one of the rings of grit around Saturn.
Today, the baseball diamond was full of activity. It was the Father ’N Son Baseball Tournament, sponsored by the Leyden Farmers and Merchants Bank, which also supplied donuts and little cartons of milk for the town’s teens, who the board of directors must have imagined were still connected to the simple things of life. I knew these were kids with condoms and Camaros, boys with mousse in their hair and hormonal treachery in their hearts. Still, here they were, Saturday morning, suited up in jeans and T-shirts, challenging on the manly battlefield of sports the accountants, cops, contractors, plumbers, and IBM technicians who were their fathers. How had they all remembered that today was the day of the game? In our house, PTA meetings, dentist appointments, school concerts all tended to disappear behind the fog of our collective forgetfulness, an amnesia that included only the practical matters of life, and nothing emotional: grudges, for example, were written in stone; slights were matters of legend.
“We should be in this game,” I said, gesturing toward the field.
“What about therapy?”
“What better therapy in the world is there than a clutch hit with men on base?”
“Right.”
“I mean it,” I said, as if this were a tenet of personal belief that went deep in me, though it had just struck me a moment ago.
“I don’t get clutch hits with men on base,” said Michael. “I strike out.”
“Not necessarily.”
“If I’m even chosen.”
“There weren’t that many games in the city,” I said.
“There’s not that many games here, either, Dad.” He had long before turned the word “Dad” into
a piece of verbal irony, the punch line in some sad running joke.
It had rained that night, and the ground as we crossed the park was still mucky; the mud slurped at our heels. Facing the park was Broadway, a two-lane blacktop with a bright center line, with the playing fields on one side and a row of Federal-style brick buildings on the other. The historical correctness of Leyden wasn’t the result of preservationist instinct but of economic doldrums. No business in town could afford new construction, and so they made do with these pleasing antiques.
Michael could not bear to look at this street, which had as much relation to his Broadway, the real Broadway, as Athens, Georgia, has to the home of the Parthenon. I hadn’t anticipated how much Michael would contrive to miss New York.
“Look at this place,” he said to me. “What are we doing here?” Michael had his hands dug into the pockets of his overly large Army fatigue jacket, which he had bought at a surplus store last year on the real Broadway. He said it had once belonged to a soldier killed in Vietnam. I’d never stopped to decide if that was true or something he said to tweak the remains of my student radicalism.
“What would you be doing if we were still in New York?”
“Being in New York.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t know. Hanging with my friends.”
I let it stand, though in fact the only friend he had at the time of our move was Oliver Green, a fat boy in skintight pants and a coconut-oiled pompadour, with whom Michael haunted the used-comic-book stores and watched TV. Michael might remember it otherwise, but the truth was he had been bored silly with and by Oliver. There were times when they were so idle they made cakes and cookies together; I had even found them one Saturday afternoon napping in our living room, with Oliver sacked out on the sofa and Michael snoring lightly in our armchair, with his hands folded in his lap.
“You’ve always hated my friends,” Michael said.
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