Arc of the Comet

by Greg Fields

  ’But the order is a great avalanche, and we are caught in it, Conor and I. We cannot stop it, or slow it, or cause it to move off its path for even the slightest bit. If we stand up to it, we shall be crushed and it will roll over us, gaining speed, gaining momentum as our bones crack and snap, rolling noisily until it hits some indefinable bottom with a cataclysmic thud.

  ’Conor, with your bold, Romantic, quixotic visions, have we not been after the same things all these years? In my introverted longings, in your idealistic clamoring, have we not both sought to divert this great avalanche away from us? We are both anomalies, Conor. We are both perversions that cannot hope to be tolerated. There shall be no final victories, not here. In due course we shall be beaten down by what’s brought against us, by what we can neither prevent nor master, until we grow tired and bitter and full of despair. We shall be swept away then, when our resolve is broken, and we shall become exactly like all the others. We are brothers, Conor Finnegan, doomed by our flawed spirits to struggle against what cannot be overcome in a thousand lifetimes.

  ’There shall be no peace for me here. What I know of this place does not allow it. It may be that there shall be no peace for me anywhere. If so, then what do I have to lose?’

  Another car came and went. Across the way, a few buildings down, a light flicked on above one of the small family-run stores. It stayed on for a minute or two, then went off.

  ’I shall not find what I am after if I remain. Perhaps it cannot be found anywhere. But the farther afield I go, the greater my chances will be.’

  Kathy stepped out of the bedroom, a white robe wrapped around her slender frame lending an ethereal air to her natural beauty. “Tom?” she whispered. McIlweath turned in his chair and saw her there, her angular face peering through space the darkness did not allow her to perceive.

  “Kathy,” he replied. “I didn’t want to wake you. I’m sorry.”

  “What are you doing here? Couldn’t you sleep?”

  “No. Through no fault of yours. I’ve been a little agitated, I guess.”

  She came up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. He nestled his head between her breasts. So firm to hold me there, he thought, like a pair of hands.

  “I haven’t noticed, Tom. Do you want to tell me what it is?”

  “Not now. It’s nothing, really. Pondering my own future, that’s all.”

  She wrapped her arms around the front of his chest and bent down to hug him, her head next to his as he leaned back against her. She felt the rasp of his unshaven face, then kissed his cheek. “That sounds serious.”

  “No, Kath. Not serious at all. Merely something we can’t avoid. It hits us all from time to time, doesn’t it?”

  “But we don’t have to deal with it at so late an hour. Come back to bed, Tom. It’s much warmer. And tell me what you’re thinking when we get there.”

  McIlweath rose and they embraced. He clasped her waist to lead her to the bedroom. Beneath the covers they huddled. McIlweath’s chilled body rubbed against Kathy’s warmth. She flinched at first as he pressed to her, then she moved her body back and forth against his to warm it.

  “What was on your mind, Tom, that took you out of our bed?”

  “It’s late, Kathy, and it was nothing new.”

  “You’re going to leave here, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad for you. It must be awfully difficult, even so. You don’t belong here. But you must know that when the time comes I’m going to miss you terribly.”

  “Let’s not talk, Kathy. It would do no good.” His embrace deepened, and Kathy moaned softly, not from lust, but from the pure joy of holding him. She felt at once the depth of his character, the hidden well of passion that quietly guided everything he did. She ran her hands along the scars that she knew must be there.

  “I will miss you, Tom McIlweath,” she whispered.

  “You saved me, Kathy. I never want to forget you. But I’ll be here tomorrow, and the day after, and for weeks to come. Let’s not talk about leaving until we have to. Let’s just hold each other.”

  And they did, as night closed back in around them to engulf their most fragile comforts.

  ***

  An ephemeral glint caught in the eye burns its way onto the soft tissue behind it and stays there after the brightness has passed, hanging weightless, tied to the sightlines so that it turns with the eye, raising and lowering itself as the head moves, always there, just beyond touch, just beyond grasp, just beyond comprehension and wisdom. We are the tail of a comet, fleetingly brief in our dusty accident, luminous in part, mostly obscured, our energy artificial, an illusion or a hoax as it dissipates into the horrible void, and all that follows is a deathly, unearthly silence so deep that it hypnotizes the mind and befuddles the soul.

  So joy passes through the great darkness, and so confusion, and so comfort. All pass, and only the darkness remains, so vast and indomitable—the ultimate chaos against which all knowledge struggles. So pass melancholy and resolution; so passes a quiet brilliance. All, all pass, yet the darkness remains in its immense, constrictive suffocation. In the end it is only this, and we cannot avoid its conclusion, the grimy epitaph that stands behind us as we lie motionless: we are ephemeral, and only darkness prevails.

  It prevails against our most glorious intentions; it prevails against youth which ages, strength which weakens, love which fades, vitality which wanes, pleasure which grows tawdry, beauty which grows banal. It prevails against flesh and the spirit. It prevails against the lyrical, lusty laughter which rises in our throats, and there chokes it. It has always been there; it will always be so, and there is no hope for redemption but to deny that it will ultimately claim us, although in our most terrified, secretive thoughts we know better.

  Still, we must deny the horrible, and it is that denial alone which keeps us functional and clear. We throw ourselves against the blackness, screaming defiance until we are strangled by our own phlegm, almost believing that the eternal destiny of Mankind will escape us, that somehow, through the splendid power of our splendid souls we shall not be sucked into the abyss, that we shall somehow stand true and honored and finally content, spared by Providence and our own valor from the endless horrors our subtle brutality has imposed upon us. But, in the end, after all fury is spent and all joys are exhausted, we must come back to what has never left us since we first crawled out of the primordial muck. And grief, which shall not die, laughs at us and our puny efforts, smiles at our hubris, then claims us against our will, against our expectations. There to die in the echo of our protests which are not heard, and finally, mockingly, the realization which we cannot escape is burned into our delicate sight—We are ephemeral; only darkness prevails, the great darkness against which the tail of the comet flashes.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

  —William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury

  Tom McIlweath walked sullenly up the familiar, narrow flight of stairs. For a brief second an image of the great Aztec temples had passed through him as he stood at the bottom. The final act, at last, and welcome. He had drawn a deep breath and placed his foot on the bottom step. The rest could be no more difficult than that. Compared with what had brought him here, it would scarcely be noticeable at all.

  At the top of the steps he rapped lightly with his knuckles. In an instant he heard footsteps within, then the door opened thinly to permit the face behind it to look out. Satisfied that the threat that stood outside was not immediate, Anne Newbury pulled the door open all the way. She stood at the side of it, unsmiling, grimly serious, her features crafted in slate.

  ’No,’ thought McIlweath. ’This will not be easy. But she can’t touch me now. There is nothing she has of mine to ruin.’

  “Hello, Anne,” he said softly. Despite his best effort at composure his v
oice had once again risen in pitch. How could one sound confident and sure when his voice piped like a choirboy’s? Such was McIlweath’s curse, or one of them.

  “Come in, Tom. Let me take your jacket.” The voice that had once seemed so comfortably melodic when he heard it every day now sounded coarse and grainy. McIlweath could find no warmth in those few words, no compassion, no empathy. In all likelihood they had never been there except to an ear expecting to hear them. They had been echoing constructions of a desperately yearning imagination.

  McIlweath gave Anne his jacket and stood in the center of the room. She told him to take a seat somewhere. Clinical, and to the point; an operation to remove a diseased or crippled part. He sat on the couch, and Anne sat across the room in an armchair.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner, Anne. I know I said only a few days when we spoke last. How’ve you been?”

  “As I’ve always been, Tom. There’s been no change in me. How have you managed? Have you found your poor little lost soul yet? I assume that’s why you called me.”

  “I called because I thought we should see each other, to set things in order. Or at least to be clear about it all. We left things in such a bad state. And I think I’ve finally found the strength to face you honestly.”

  “To see what we can salvage? How gallant.”

  “Not gallant. But after all we’ve shared I thought I at least owed you . . . an explanation, if nothing else.”

  “Perhaps an apology might be more in order. That is, if you want to salvage anything at all. Or is this just another one of your exercises in angst?”

  “An apology would imply that I had done something wrong, and that you had been wounded by it. The first part isn’t true. I’ve done nothing wrong, Anne, except to myself, and for that I’m solely accountable. As for the second part, I doubt if I’ve ever had the power to wound you in any way. I wonder if any man can.”

  “If you’ve come to insult me again, then please leave right now. I’ve no time to deal with your peevishness.”

  McIlweath turned to look out the window as he drew his thoughts. He saw nothing but an amorphous pattern of lights that ended abruptly at a black void that must be the park a few blocks away. The clock on the windowsill read 10:17. This part of the city had ground to a halt hours ago. What was left outside the window was only the winding down, the binding of the rag-ends that hung useless and limp. Wednesday night in mid-May, the beaten stump of a brutal year. The wind blew, hard enough to push vagrant papers and buds against the glass in a scattered rapping that seemed bored except when the gusts knocked the debris with such force as to evoke images of anger or desolation. It had rained that day; it would rain again tomorrow. On such a night there was no place else to be.

  McIlweath had not planned to call on Anne tonight, although he knew eventually he must see her again. The sentiment had captured him as the afternoon plodded on its gray, leaden weariness. The weight of the entire year since he had come to Boston pressed down on him then. His alienation had been characterized in a somber campus, empty hallways and wet, blowing papers. He had spoken to no one that day, like few such days in recent weeks. There had been only the rain, cold on his face and hair, and there had been the wind swishing along what was unattached. It had not been a day to look forward to the impending next step. Rather, it had been a day for retrospection, sober and depressing, a day in which husbands and wives sat glumly on opposite sides of the dinner table to sip their coffee without speaking, before going silently and dispassionately to bed. The dampness in the air soaked through the skin, soaked through the bones and seeped into the heart. The wind made echoing, empty noises.

  “No, Anne, I haven’t come to insult you.” McIlweath had all of a sudden become extremely weary. It took a concerted effort to force the words out of his lungs. “I just thought we should talk. To settle accounts, I suppose.”

  “And what accounts are those? What conclusions have you reached? After all this time you must certainly have something profound to tell me. Perhaps you’ve identified more of my faults, or determined other ways in which I’ve made your life miserable.”

  “I take full responsibility for the condition of my life, Anne.”

  “You’re damn right, you do. I swear, Tom, I’ve gotten so tired of your self-pity. It’s all been so childish, ever since I’ve known you. You’ve wasted so much time. And in the end you’ve always resented me for what you think I’ve made you do. Well, I’ve made you do nothing. You’re where you are of your own accord. Whatever you’ve had to put up with has been the result of your own little schema, or lack of it.”

  “I know that, Anne. For the first time in a long while, I can admit that. Perhaps for the first time ever.”

  “All I’ve tried to do is give you some direction. It’s always been up to you whether to accept it or not. But, God, you’re so damn stubborn. I suppose that comes from timidity. You’ve been petrified to make a decision and so you’ve drifted along without aim, or rudder, or locomotion. You’ve ridden the currents, and you cry when you bang into the rocks.”

  “I’ve never been as driven as you, that much is true. I’m afraid I’ve been too conscious of my insecurities. I’ve let them sway me more than I should have. And you, Anne, have been my greatest insecurity. I’ve never told you that, but it should be obvious. You don’t need me to tell you. You’ve played off that since we met. I’ve been your servant, and your pet, and your amusement, simply because I dreaded losing you. I’ve been everything but your lover.

  “It’s not that I’ve been lacking direction, Anne,” he continued. “It’s that I’ve ceded responsibility for my direction to you. I’ve run along after you for fear of being left alone, a puppy left behind when its owner runs to the store. That’s been a horrible weakness, and I’ve paid for it dearly. I have no time to pay for it further.”

  “Oh, Tom, you God damn fool. I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you, but you’re so lost in this sophomoric nonsense to realize it.”

  “God, you’re so certain of yourself. You have no doubts. Anne, you have no answers for me. You’re blessed if you have them for yourself, no matter how certain you are. But you have nothing for me.

  “You say that I’ve been drifting and that I have yet to devote myself to anything lasting. But that’s not entirely true. I’ve devoted myself to you, and so I’ve trailed you like a shadow. Yet you’ve always remained untouchable. You’ve dangled yourself just out of my grasp, and always I’ve kept trying to clutch you. I thought I needed that as much as I needed a roof over my head or clothes on my back. You’ve been a magnet; I’ve always pointed to you, true north, and that’s been as much direction as I’ve allowed myself to see.

  “It’s been a hopeless situation,” he continued, “but it’s taken me years to recognize it. You wanted me in your orbit, but you were always going where you were going whether I came along or not. Yet when I accede to you and accept your terms, you call me weak.”

  “Perhaps,” said Anne, “you accepted my ’terms,’ as you call it, for the wrong reasons. You followed me out of insecurity rather than conviction.”

  “But you’ve always had enough conviction for all concerned,” McIlweath replied. “My God, Anne, how can you be so certain of yourself? How can you be so certain of what’s out there and where it all fits?”

  “And how can you not be?” she shot back. “Christ, Tom, every move you make shouldn’t be subject to some ponderous deliberation. You agonize over issues that should be taken for granted. You play Hamlet, or Byron, but you’re not afforded that luxury. It’s the simplest thing in the world to know what you want for yourself: you define it, then you go get it. But the more you question and second-guess and inspect and evaluate, the more likely you are of becoming so confused that you become paralyzed with fear. That’s what happened to you. Act on what you know, not on what you don’t. Act on what you want.”

  “What we want is determined by what we know. I have no definitive answers, Anne. I
don’t know enough to have them. But I’m becoming increasingly aware of the potential to acquire what’s needed. And I don’t think it can be done here. That’s really what I’ve come to tell you.”

  “What are you going to do, Tom?”

  “I’ve been offered a fellowship, Anne. I’m going abroad for a while.”

  “Where?”

  “Ireland. University College, in County Cork. You’ve never heard of it.”

  “My God, Tom. I’d have never thought you capable of it.” Anne spoke in a hushed voice, the sting of her words gone now. She had been caught short, and thoroughly surprised.

  “Until recently, neither had I. You speak of acting upon what we know rather than what we don’t. I understand that, for whatever reason or series of reasons, I’m not destined to be happy here. I know I can’t feel comfortable within the expectations that have been set for me. Even if I found that I wanted to get a degree, or do post-grad research, or teach, I’ll resist because I’ll feel manipulated. Or else I’ll go do it and feel absolutely miserable.

  “Anne, we’re all born to an order, and that order defines our possibilities. All my life I’ve felt alienated, never quite a part of what’s going on around me. I don’t know why that’s been the case, but whatever the reason, it’s been a part of me for too long. I’ve wanted to be accepted and respected above all else. I’ve wanted people to recognize the strengths and weaknesses of my character, its anodes and cathodes, and respond to them alone, away from any preconceptions. That’s why I came east. That’s why I was originally attracted to you. I’ve always held out an anticipation of that acceptance. I’ve thought that I’ve seen it in other people, so naturally it had to be in store for me.

  “But as we grow older we complicate ourselves. That’s obvious, isn’t it? And we become more answerable to others’ expectations. More responsive to what other people think, or expect, or demand, rather than less. You’ve conceived your own standards for me, and I’ve tried to honor them. That’s what brought me here, and I’ve been abjectly miserable for months. Sometimes I think I’m getting away as a reaction to you, but it’s really broader than that.