“‘All Souls.’ From Language Mesh, 1959,” Luke says before Thomas has completed his thought. “Your turn.”
Luke’s eyes radiate heat. Thomas can smell his breath. Once again there’s this jasmine-like fragrance in it, almost like a sweet tea in the midst of something fusty and sharp. Thomas can’t remember a single strophe of anything at all. The only thing he knows is Celan’s “Death Fugue,” and that’s too easy. Luke would guess it at once. Shakespeare, he thinks. Come on, remember some lines of a sonnet. Or Dickinson. Dickinson or Rilke. Lorca. Luke waits patiently. He drinks his beer and ashes his cigarette. He leans back on the bench and turns to face the storm, the night. But Thomas doesn’t know Emily Dickinson, Lorca, or Rilke by heart. And why would he? He’s read very little poetry, and then mostly because the small volumes are often beautiful, and published on first-rate paper. He’s caressed the books more than he’s read them. The font type, the margins, the paper’s weight, the cover design—this is what he looks at. There’s nothing left for him to do but give up and utter a few lines of “Death Fugue.” But not the first lines. There’s a microscopic chance that Luke won’t remember the entire poem. He clears his throat. Luke gives him an encouraging look, then smiles. A small, kind smile. And Thomas focuses on the sight of the poem, the way he sees it on his shelf at home. Imagining it, he scans the page in his mind. Then he says: “He calls out jab deeper into the earth you lot you others sing now and play / he grabs at the iron in his belt he waves it his eyes are blue / jab deeper you lot with your spades . . .” Thomas can’t remember any more. “Jab deeper you lot with your spades . . .” Thomas sputters to a halt. A smile spreads across Luke’s face, exposing his teeth. “You others play on for the dance,” Luke continues, nodding; he’s enjoying this very much, apparently. “That was easy,” he says. “Paul Celan’s ‘Death Fugue.’ Poppy and Memory, 1952.”
And on and on it goes, Thomas gives up, Luke recites indefatigably. Once in a while Thomas guesses correctly, but most of the time he’s wrong. And usually it’s the poets’ surnames he gets right, not the titles, not the given names, not the publication dates. Luke seems to expand on the bench, filling more and more, he seems kinder, more animated. Meanwhile, Thomas’s headache gets worse.
“Do you even understand the meanings of the poems that you know by heart?” Thomas asks at one point. Luke shrugs and pops open another beer. “That’s not important. What’s important is knowing them. Almost like counting sheep when you can’t sleep.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t really know. I’ve just learned them. Jacques made me practice when we were fishing. It was a kind of sport to him. Sometimes he would tell me that his head swarmed with poems, as if they plagued him. Other times they made him . . .” Luke sighs, wrapping the blanket tighter around him.
“What? In good spirits? Happy?”
“I don’t know.” Luke stares straight ahead. “But I think so. In prison he always crammed poetry. When I visited him, the first thing he’d asked was whether I’d learned this or that suite, and whether I’d brought this or that book for him. We had a kind of . . . fellowship with the poems.” Luke breathes slowly, in and out, from deep within his belly. “It was something we shared—even when he was in prison and we couldn’t fish or anything.”
“Strange,” says Thomas. “Fucking strange.” He shakes his head and swigs the last of his lukewarm beer.
“Are you tired?” All at once Luke sounds gentle and jittery. But he doesn’t look nervous. Only happy. Big and happy and gracious.
“We can do a few more,” Thomas says. He doesn’t want to disappoint him. Luke gathers himself and closes his eyes. For a moment, he seems like a sprinter waiting for the official to fire the starter’s gun. Extremely present and alert, but at the same time mentally withdrawn, into his body. “Why, if this interval of being can be spent serenely / in the form of a laurel, slightly darker than all / other green, with tiny waves on the edges / of every leaf (like the smile of a breeze)—: why then / have to be human—and, escaping from fate, / keep longing from fate? . . . / oh not because happiness exists, / that too-hasty profit snatched from approaching / loss.”
Since Thomas doesn’t stop him, he keeps going. Thrusting the words, rhythmic and strong. Rocking back and forth. Lifting his head and lowering it. Thomas gets goose bumps and feels a sudden tenderness for the young man beside him, so vulnerable suddenly, or so it seems, but maybe he’s wrong. “Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future grows any smaller . . . superabundant being / wells up in my heart.”
They fall silent. Listening to the wind. A lucid thought pierces Thomas: Is he my brother? The notion startles him. Is Luke my brother? Is that it? Luke—exhausted, quizzical, but also proud—looks at Thomas.
“Applause,” Thomas says, carefully touching Luke’s shoulder. “Not too many can do what you do. Rilke. It must be one of the elegies, but which one? I haven’t a clue.”
“The ninth.”
They smoke another cigarette. Luke tucks his legs underneath him and hugs his knees. The cigarette glows and the lights flicker. Thomas regards Luke. They don’t at all look alike. Except in height. What if he’s my brother? Warm and cold, his lungs floating behind his ribs, as if there was suddenly all too-much air in them. “Rilke,” Thomas says. “They say you’ll need to spend your entire life studying his work if you really want to understand him.” Luke doesn’t comment on that. He’s oddly distant now. Outside it sounds as though the wind has transformed into one large, greedy mouth.
“Well,” Thomas says, “It’s almost bedtime for me. Aren’t you getting up early to fish? Or have you changed your mind?”
Luke will go fishing. Thomas stands. But it’s as if Luke’s consciousness returns to the situation and the sunroom. With renewed energy, he insists on reciting yet another poem. The goodnight poem, he calls it. Against his better judgment, Thomas returns to the bench, swaddling himself in the blanket. He’s had enough poetry. And this new, nagging idea—that Luke could be Jacques’s son—careens in him like confusing, off-key notes. Luke’s different now, freer, and it’s obvious that he knows this poem from beginning to end, and could probably recite it in his sleep.
“We two, how long we were fool’d / Now transmuted, we swiftly escape as Nature escapes, / We are Nature, long have we been absent, but now we return, / We become plants, trunks, foliage, roots, bark . . .” And a little further along in the text: “We are two fishes swimming in the sea together / We are what locust blossoms are, we drop scent around lanes / mornings and evenings . . .” Thomas eyes Luke. Luke’s face opens, his jaw slackens, his eyes looking calmly ahead, his left hand keeping rhythm, tranquilly tapping the arm of the bench. Thomas allows him to repeat the entire poem. At last Luke turns to him, and his voice is deep and hot in Thomas’s ear. It feels as though Luke’s eyes are boring right into his brain, but there’s also a question behind them, a kind of prayer, almost: “We are snow, rain, cold, darkness, we are each product and / influence of the globe, / We have circled and circled till we have arrived home again, we two, / We have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy.” When Luke is finished, it’s quiet. But he continues to stare. Thomas hears Luke’s breathing, even imagines he hears his heart beating. Suddenly it’s all too much. Too intimate. Too constricting, as if both the poem and Luke’s gaze were an invitation written in invisible ink; is that what he’s saying? Thomas thinks, shifting in his seat. Is he telling me we’re brothers with that poem? It’s unreal and strangely obvious at the same time. “Very nice,” he says. “Who is it?” Finally Luke draws his face back.
“Whitman. Walt Whitman. You don’t know it?”
Thomas shakes his head.
“It’s one of my favorite poems,” Luke says softly. “If I can put it that way. I recited it to myself at Jacques’s funeral. It played on a continuous loop in my head. It’s calming, I think, or something like that.”
So he does have a favorite poem, Thomas thinks. Then he considers the po
em’s meaning. He inches away, and Luke sets his feet on the cement floor again, then leans forward and braces his hands against the edge of the bench.
“Maybe he thought about it too,” Thomas says tentatively. “Jacques, I mean. When he realized he was dying.”
Luke shrugs. “I don’t think so. He just died. Collapsed.” Then, with more urgency, he leans backward and slides his arms along the bench, one of which settles right behind Thomas’s neck. He says: “You know that prison guard at the funeral was the one who kindled Jacques’s interest in poetry? He loaned him a book. Many years ago. Later he helped him order books from the library.” He looks at Thomas. Half his face is in shadow, the rest glows in the flickering orange-yellow light of a candle. The other candle has gone out.
“So a convict and a guard were both held in the vast, life-enriching clutches of poetry?” Thomas says. He can’t help but laugh, briefly and hoarsely. “That’s too funny!” But Luke doesn’t think it’s so funny. He presses his lips together, tilts his head back, and gathers up his hair.
“Well, there’s no doubt who the winner of this round is,” Thomas says, conciliatory. “Not to mention the first. You’re really good, I’ll give you that. I’m happy that Jacques gave these poems to you—that he gave anything to you at all.” Thomas regards Luke, searching for some sign in his face, in his eyes, something to reveal who he is, and who his father is. But there’s nothing to see. Thomas gets to his feet. “Are you coming?”
Luke shakes his head. “I’m going to sit here a while,” he says quietly. “If I can have another of your cigarettes?”
“Just don’t burn the house down,” Thomas smiles. “Goodnight, Luc. Good to spar with you.” Luke flinches at the sound of his real name, but he doesn’t respond. “I didn’t offend you, did I? What I said about the clutches of poetry?” With small gestures, Luke indicates that Thomas didn’t offend him. Then he smiles tiredly, lowering his chin. And as Thomas begins to go, his headache throbs with merciless precision. He’s not drunk anymore, but apparently he’s already got a hangover. It must be 3:00 in the morning. He ambles through the house, then cautiously outside, into the wind. This time he finds the barn door without any difficulty. Shortly afterward, he’s lying on the saggy air mattress beside Patricia, listening to the peaceful sounds of bodies sleeping near him. The sleeping bag warms up quickly. Patricia grinds her teeth. No way he’s my brother, he thinks, and now it seems insane that he’d convinced himself of the opposite only a moment before. He can feel in his bones that he has no genetic connection whatsoever to Luke. No kinship. Not even a sliver of a doubt. Calm now, he rolls onto his side. Takes a deep breath. I’ve dived into a sea of bobbing people, he thinks sleepily. I’m bobbing in a sea of people. Right before he falls asleep, he’s suddenly gripped by panic. What if Luke really burns the house down? But of course he won’t. And the wind whistles and howls.
By the next morning the wind has died down, and the sun’s shining through an almost cloudless sky. Thomas wakes to the sound of bleating sheep. He looks at the clock—9:00 A.M. Though he tries to fall asleep again, he can’t. He’s nauseated and his mouth is pasty: a dry taste of dog food and vomit. But he didn’t vomit. And luckily his headache is now more of a dull throb than actual pain. Patricia’s getting dressed. Pulling her blouse over her head, buttoning her skirt in the back. Thomas sits up. The others have left their bedrolls. Jenny and Maloney have carefully folded their blankets and towels. “Morning,” Patricia says. “You look like an old man.”
“I feel like an old man,” Thomas mutters, turning his face away. She walks off. He gets to his feet. His clothes reek of smoke. When he goes out to the yard, the light’s very bright. He squints at the sun and stands there a moment; everything seems bleary, flickering. Finally he regains focus. The sheep stare at him. They’re gathered in a large, bleating mass on the other side of the fence. On the patio, Kristin sits dressed in a bathrobe and sunglasses, drinking coffee with Jenny, Maloney, and Helena. And now Patricia steps out of the sunroom, a mug in her hand. Thomas O’Mally Lindström cuts across the lawn, planting his big feet step by step in the wet, dewy grass, his arms swinging listlessly at his side, thinking about the poem Luke read last, the so-called “goodnight poem.” He wonders about it. He thinks about French fries smothered in thick mayonnaise, about burgers with enormous pickles. He notices the rowan trees’ feather-like leaves, a blackbird landing on a gnarled apple tree, Patricia sitting down and saying something to Kristin. Can feel the heartburn just under his ribs. The light like confetti when he slips under a shedding lilac. Finally he reaches the patio, and finds a seat beside Helena.
“Oh,” he groans. “I feel a little dizzy today.”
They discuss the good weather, the arrival of summer after an unrecognizable spring, last night’s competition, the long drive home. They laugh wearily at one of Maloney’s jokes, which falls flat, then they simultaneously zone out. Thomas gets coffee and buns smeared in butter. Maloney concentrates on spooning a bowl of yogurt heaped with a generous portion of sugar into his mouth. “Where are the girls?” Patricia asks.
“They’re still asleep,” Helena says. “Anyone want aspirin?” She looks at Kristin, grinning. Kristin grunts something unintelligible.
“Awr,” Jenny says, stretching. “That air mattress thoroughly beat me . . . I’ve slept terribly . . .”
Alice and Luke have gone fishing. Helena heard them rummaging around in the kitchen shortly after sunrise. They stand. Carry their mugs in. And the morning passes packing cars and cleaning the house. Sleepily, the twins descend the stairs at 11:00 A.M. and are promptly sent out to feed the chickens. Thomas walks down to the lake, but Alice and Luke aren’t anywhere to be seen. He shuffles back. The others are seated on the patio again. Patricia gets a sunburn rather quickly. She wiggles her toes with her legs up on a chair. Thomas lays a hand on her warm, naked shin. He can’t find his cigarettes. He discusses hiring Alice with Maloney once more. Maloney’s pretty much resigned to it. Jenny gets involved, she’s distrustful, but thinks that overall it’s a good idea. “If it has to be this way,” she sighs, “then I suppose this is as good as anything else.” Kristin opines that Alice ought to go back to school. Helena says, “Leave the girl alone now. She’s only eighteen.”
“Exactly,” Kristin snaps, her hangover clearly making her testy. “She should get an education, for God’s sake. Like everyone else!”
“Everyone else . . .” Jenny says pointedly. “I don’t have any education.”
“Sure you do! You studied nursing!” Kristin sounds very irritated now.
“For one semester only. But I never finished. Nobody encouraged me to continue.”
“We did too,” Thomas says. “Don’t start that again.”
Appalled, Jenny stares at him with round, martyr eyes.
“But Jenny,” Helena soothes, “you’ve done all right, though. You’ve always had work.”
“But not as a nurse! Anyway, that’s not the point. Can’t you let Alice figure things out for herself? Why do you need to get so involved?” Jenny’s on the edge of becoming hysterical.
“I’m going down to stack some wood,” Maloney declares, removing his T-shirt so that everyone can see his big white belly. Helena’s aghast at the sight. His gut apparently stops all conversation. They gaze at Maloney in silence, watching him trundle toward the wood pile. Then they discuss the vandalism at the store, and Thomas realizes that he’s hardly thought about it since they left the city. Kristin speaks up and loudly tells them about a breech birth that went horribly wrong. She doesn’t spare any of the gruesome details. Most children are born at home up here, she explains, and it’s not always possible to reach the hospital if there’s an emergency, because the distances are too great. She’d called for a helicopter, but it was too late. Patricia shudders. “Usually everything goes as it should,” Helena smiles. “Now don’t be scaring Patricia. Kristin says that you two are thinking about having a baby? It’s lovely. I miss having little ones in my life. Per
haps we could become grandmothers of some kind?” Helena glances happily at Kristin, and Kristin gives her an exasperated, unfriendly glare.
“I can’t imagine Thomas as a father . . .” Jenny says.
“Here they come!” Patricia interrupts, pointing down toward the lake. Rising to her feet, she shields her eyes from the sun with her hand. Alice and Luke appear. She: easy-going and slender with her ultra-short hair. He: calm, and as though conjoined with the earth, wearing shorts and rubber boots. Their fishing poles rest on their shoulders, and Luke’s carrying a bucket that seems heavy. Maya and Nina run toward them, Jupiter barking at their heels. “I think they caught something!” Patricia says cheerfully. “So we can have minced fish-balls for lunch.”
Yes, they can. Luke has caught a medium-sized pike and four small perch. He seems rather pleased. The women shout excitedly, all except for Kristin, who sneaks away. Luke and Alice sit on the stoop and clean the fish. Luke teaches Alice just how to avoid cutting herself on the sharp spikes the perch have on their gills and dorsal fin. He uses the knife skillfully. Tosses the fish heads to the two wild cats who, drawn by the smell, have approached. Luke explains how he had to fight the pike. The perch, too. “When they have a good bite on the hook, they can really put up a struggle,” he says, wiping blood from his hands with a paper towel. “But that just makes it more fun.” According to Alice, Luke is the most amazing and talented and professional fisherman there is. “What did you do, then?” Nina asks Alice.
“I watched Luke and kept him company. But unfortunately I didn’t catch any fish myself.”
“Yes, you did,” Luke says.
“Okay, but you had to take over the line for me.” She looks at the twins. “I couldn’t hold it! It was the pike. It got away the first time, but Luke hooked it again.”
“You can’t possibly know it was the same pike,” says Nina.
“Of course you can,” Luke says. “And do you know how we know? It told us its name.”
Rock, Paper, Scissors Page 27
