The Light Years

by Chris Rush

  “Shoot it,” he said.

  I told him no.

  “Shoot,” he demanded.

  “I prefer not to,” I said, upping the literary caliber of my refusal.

  “Pull the goddamned trigger.” His face was a hideous rock.

  I pulled the trigger.

  “Shoot again!”

  It was painful. I could feel the power of the gun vibrating through my entire body. I pulled the trigger three more times, watching the buckshot shred the beautiful blue wings. I put down the gun and studied the creature, clotted with blood.

  What am I doing? I thought. I love birds.

  Dad was already gone, back inside, drinking his fill. I put the shotgun down against the barn, went to the bay, and threw stones into the shallow water. Leaning down to look at my own reflection, I hated my life.

  15.

  For Your Own Protection

  THE NIGHTMARES INCREASED. The nightmares were real.

  In the hospital in New Mexico, a young neurologist had come by to check on my progress. He was nearly bald but looked no older than thirty. I asked him why I couldn’t remember what happened.

  “For your own protection,” he said—which made no sense to me.

  He used the word shock. He touched my arm, comforting me about a darkness neither of us could fathom.

  That winter, memories of Albuquerque began to filter back. Not just in dreams but during the day.

  First I saw mountains, dark peaks looming in the sun.

  Then the rusted white truck, the smell of oil and sage.

  There was more. I didn’t want more.

  There was a black bird flying too close, a tear in the picture.

  These fragments, which gradually began to stitch themselves together, had an otherworldly quality. The person I saw was both me and someone else—a movie seen from the sky, a narrative disembodied by violence.

  * * *

  THERE IS A BOY in the back of a pickup truck.

  The truck exits the highway.

  A dirt road. It’s wrong—I know this immediately.

  I’m going to Tucson.

  But the truck is going north, going too fast. I’m banging on the window, telling them to stop, to let me out. They won’t turn around.

  Blank. There’s a blank.

  Then I’m crying—this part makes me feel sick, even as I write it down forty years later. The man in the passenger seat turns toward me and mouths a kiss. He shows me the gun in his hand.

  I know I’m going to die.

  The picture wavers, then fails. Only a feeling of doom remains.

  The terrible sadness of having to die, of never seeing my family again.

  What could be worse? I’m not ready to say goodbye to the people I love.

  16.

  Sick

  MOST MORNINGS, I could barely get out of bed. When my friend Sean called to say we should hang out, I told him maybe next week.

  Then a request came I couldn’t refuse.

  “Hello?” I said, answering the phone, half-asleep at five in the afternoon.

  “What—you can’t even say Merry Christmas? Hallelujah, brother!”

  “Valentine! Are you here?”

  “Up the street at Jo’s parents’. Do you deserve your Christmas present? Are you an Agent for the Forces of Good?”

  “Yes—I am.”

  “Outside,” he said. “Fifteen minutes.”

  In my army surplus jacket, I shivered, nervous about seeing St. Valentine. A big white Lincoln pulled up. Glam in faux leather and ethical syntho-fur, he and Jo wore matching coats and white cowboy hats.

  In the car, Valentine lit a joint. “Jo’s pregnant again. Praise God! Family is the greatest thing on this earth, Christopher. Never forget that, brother, never.”

  Jo kissed me. “Your sister says hi.”

  “Is she here?”

  “No, she’s in Boston, working.”

  We drove and then parked in a deserted spot by the river.

  “It’s red, you know,” I said.

  “What is?”

  “The river. Only you can’t see it now ’cause of the dark.”

  Jo asked if I was joking, and I said no. “There’s a chemical company poisoning the water.”

  Valentine shook his head. “Revelations: ‘The second angel poured out his bowl into the sea, and it became blood like that of a dead man.’”

  “Charlton Heston?” Jo said.

  “Not exactly, babe—that was Exodus.”

  “Still, it’s pretty much the same thing,” I said, not wanting Jo to feel dismissed. “It’s still about judgment.”

  “Judge this.” From a satchel, Valentine removed a vial of black tar and a tiny glass pipe. He filled the pipe and passed it to me. As he carefully cooked the tar with a lighter, I took a single inhalation—and coughed so hard I could barely breathe. Hallucinations skittered around my head.

  “So dude, what do you think?”

  I coughed again. “Uuuuuh … yeah.”

  “I knew you’d like it. It’s my invention. I call it ‘the One’—hash oil from the Brotherhood, mixed with powdered pot. Un-fucking-real potency.”

  Valentine dipped the toy pipe back in.

  “I made four hundred bottles. I tried to sell it to the Dead, but Garcia told me it was too strong for human beings. Who cares what he thinks? He’s just a junkie. Here, do another hit.”

  As I inhaled the smoke, everything flashed white, then sparkled like rainbow confetti. Again, I lost my breath coughing. Through my distress, I saw Valentine’s smiling face.

  “That’s enough,” said Jo. “I tried it once and I was gone for a day. Plus, I coughed for like three hours straight.”

  “You get used to it,” Valentine said. “So, Chris, wanna take this around to your friends?”

  “Sure,” I croaked.

  He gave me five bottles. “I’ll front them to you for a hundred each, but you can get two, at least.”

  I saw Jo look away, toward the black river that was really red.

  “Oh, and I have this.” I handed him the envelope. “For Lu. I’m sorry it took so long.”

  When Jo said I looked too skinny, Valentine winked at me. “I think he looks beautiful. Holy men are always skinny.”

  * * *

  ON CHRISTMAS MORNING, my mother asked if I needed cough medicine.

  I said I was fine.

  The house glittered and glowed. A tinsel tree had landed in the living room, like a rocket. Above the doorways and fireplace were silver bells and daggers of ice. Staring at the metallic splendor, I coughed even more.

  Mother touched my head and said I felt warm. “Maybe you should go back to bed. You can open your presents later.”

  I returned to the basement and took another hit of the One. At this point, I’d been experimenting with it for nearly a week. The tar was incredibly hallucinogenic, but it was also making me ill.

  Somehow, dead stoned and coughing, I made it through the holidays and then back to school. Marching down the bleak hallways, I saw the same old nonsense—boys and girls, zits and tits. There was no escape. I needed to stay high.

  * * *

  I FRONTED A VIAL of the One to Sean, but later he told me he wanted to return it, claiming, This shit hurts to smoke!

  “No, man,” I said. “Your body just needs to adjust.”

  “That’s what the Inquisitor said to the guy on the rack.”

  I liked Sean’s nerdy sense of humor.

  Sometimes I hung out at his house, in his attic room. It was a sort of tent, a fantasy of tassels and tapestries. In far corners sat huge black speakers, like pagan idols. Without a word, Sean would choose a record and place it carefully on the turntable.

  In that little attic, the Jefferson Airplane came in for a hard landing.

  Sometimes, Sean’s sister, Darla, would get stoned with us.

  “Maybe you should shut the door?” I said, knowing that their father, Mr. Carney, was also the sheriff.

  “It
’s fine,” Darla said. “Dad prefers we smoke at home. So, I hear you’re interested in extraterrestrials.”

  “Definitely,” I said.

  “Well, Sean and I have a lot of information. Do you know Gabriel Green?”

  “We have all of his newsletters,” said Sean.

  “Gabriel’s the president of the AFSCA.”

  I stared at them.

  “Amalgamated Flying Saucer Clubs of America?” Darla said. “Gabriel goes around the country lecturing and performing past-life regressions for people.”

  “I’d love to try that,” I said. “Sounds intense.”

  Sean dove under his bed. “Here, let me give you some info.”

  When I got home, I told Mom I had a new best friend.

  “Well,” she said, “I’m glad to hear it. Who is the lucky child?”

  I was pleased to announce that it was Sean Carney, son of the sheriff.

  “That boy you knew when you were little?”

  “Yeah. He lives out by—”

  “I know where he lives. I’m not sure he’s the right choice for a friend, Chris.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, there were problems a few years back. While you were away.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  Mom ignored the question. “It’s sad you don’t see Becky anymore—the two of you used to be inseparable, playing your little games in the basement. Fainting and—”

  “That was a long time ago, Mom.”

  “Sean Carney.” Mom sighed.

  * * *

  MY FATHER’S TRIAL had been postponed—and his lawyer was optimistic. Despite Dad’s relief, he continued to drink heavily. Without the immediate threat of prison or mob execution, Dad decided to focus on other problems.

  Such as me.

  One night, I heard the old familiar word, the one my father had favored before I’d left for St. John’s. In the kitchen, Dad was saying something about the queer.

  I crept to what I’d come to think of as my “listening step,” the one closest to my bedroom door. My mother was in the midst of some sort of protest, but my father cut her off.

  “Norma, just look at him, prancing around like the Queen of Sheba. That little faggot will cut that hair or go live with the queers in New York City.”

  “Charlie, don’t be vulgar. He’s fifteen years old. What possible difference does his hair make to you? And if, God forbid, he is a homosexual, whose fault is that? A boy needs a man to look up to, not a drunken slob.”

  I proceeded to smoke more of Valentine’s goo, drowning out their argument with the sound of coughing.

  * * *

  “READER, I TELL YOU: the moon is inhabited, it has always been inhabited!”

  Gabriel Green’s essay “The Moon Is a Foreign Country” blew my mind. Reading Sean’s UFO leaflets in my bedroom was a comfort. I understood that life beyond Earth was entirely plausible. Necessary, even. Why else would God have invented outer space?

  Plus, Sean said: “Advanced civilizations are no doubt bisexual.”

  I needed to escape—to the moon, to anywhere. I was depressed—though, back then, that was a word rarely used to describe the struggles of a child. I was drugged, exhausted, ill.

  Mom would let me stay home from school a few days a week. I told her over and over that I didn’t feel well. She allowed me to sleep late, then she’d make me lunch. I think she was lonely and wanted company.

  One afternoon, we watched TV while she ironed a basket of clothes. I sprawled on the couch, wasted, my long legs draped lewdly across the furniture.

  Soon Mom was staring at my jeans instead of at Dinah Shore.

  “Chris, what’s that in your pocket? Is that drugs?”

  “What?”

  “Right there, I can see it! What is it? Is it marijuana?”

  I had a big boner. “Calm down,” I said.

  She got up and started pointing at my hard-on. “I know you have drugs. Give them to me immediately!”

  When she realized she was yelling at my erection, she blushed and returned to her ironing. Grabbing one of Dad’s polyester shirts, she began to press very hard with the point of the iron, as if Dad were still inside. The plastic shirt began to melt. The smell was awful.

  “Mom, I think you’re burning that.”

  “I should burn everything in this goddamn house!”

  I went downstairs and hid.

  * * *

  I’M TOO SICK to go to school became my regular line. I felt lousy.

  One morning I heard my parents, upstairs, conferring on “the Chris Situation.” I lost interest and went back to sleep. Around nine or ten, Mom barked my name on the intercom. A few minutes later, my father stormed into the room and pulled me out of bed.

  “Get up! You’re going to the hospital.”

  “Why?”

  “Boy your age should not be ill. Hurry up, get dressed—we’re leaving in five minutes!”

  In the car, I was upset. I kept asking them where they were really taking me.

  Mother tried to minimize the situation. “You’re going to like the hospital. You’ll find it very relaxing. And I don’t care what people say—the food is terrific!”

  Over the years, Mom had disappeared for various mysterious treatments.

  When we arrived, Dad said he’d wait in the car.

  “Charlie,” Mom said, “you come in with us. This was your idea.”

  But Dad refused. He didn’t like hospitals.

  “I don’t want to go either, Mom—I’m not that sick!” Shouting, I began to cough.

  * * *

  FOR THREE OR FOUR DAYS, I’m trapped in the place—defeated and confused.

  When the doctors come in to ask questions, I don’t say much. I don’t tell them I’ve been smoking enormous quantities of hash oil; that I’m queer; that I’d been abducted and taken to the desert to be killed.

  Nurses fly in and out, listen to my heart, take my blood.

  When Mom calls, I tell her to bring me a cross to wear around my neck.

  She brings me a huge silver one and asks me if I’m afraid of vampires.

  I say: Aren’t you?

  At night, I can’t sleep with all the weird sounds. At three in the morning, I get up and walk around in my gown. I see shrunken patients disappearing into sheets and pillows. Some of them are strapped down. I’m walking as fast as I can down the hall—but the hall is getting longer and longer.

  “Is this a mental hospital?” I ask an old woman in a gown identical to mine.

  “I don’t think so,” she says. “I think they’d tell us if it was.”

  An orderly finds me and leads me back to my room.

  * * *

  FINALLY, MOM ARRIVES to take me home. In the car I ask about my test results.

  “Inconclusive. Dr. Footer has suggested it’s all psychosomatic.”

  “Dr. Footer is an idiot.”

  “He’s a coroner,” Mother snapped. “He understands matters of life and death.”

  “Is this a matter of life and death?”

  She looked me in the eye. “You know, you can’t be weak, Chris. It will drive you crazy. I think it’s time you talk to someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Not me,” she said. “A professional. I’ve already made an appointment with Dr. Hirsch. I’m told he’s very good with young people.”

  17.

  Proof

  DR. J. HIRSCH, PH.D., received us in his dark, wood-paneled office. After a few polite words, Mom was dismissed and told to return in one hour.

  When we were alone, the doctor began bluntly: “Your unhappiness is a given.”

  He said that his first responsibility was to determine if I was a danger to myself. Point-blank, he asked, “Are you suicidal?”

  “No,” I said. “But my parents are.”

  “I’m not concerned with your parents.”

  Dr. Hirsch was a short, swarthy man who chain-smoked Kool 100s. From a cloud of yellow smoke his face came
and went, like the Great Oz.

  It was a relief when he asked me to take a test in another room.

  Five hundred questions!

  Are you sexually aroused by fire?

  YES

  NO

  Do you like to wear clothes of the opposite sex?

  YES

  NO

  Would you like to change your gender?

  YES

  NO

  I boldly answered yes to everything, thrilledb to admit to crimes I hadn’t yet imagined. But after the test I panicked. What if he gives those papers to my parents?

  At the next appointment, I saw my test results on his desk. Again, the doctor seemed weary, as if I was wasting his time.

  “First, you need to know I’m recording this session, to help me diagnose. Do you mind?”

  “Are my parents going to hear it?”

  “Of course not. By law, our sessions are private, unless you are a danger to yourself or the community.” He punched the buttons of a big brown tape recorder on a shelf behind his desk. We had one just like it at home.

  “So, Christopher, how long have you been setting fires?”

  “Doctor, that wasn’t a good answer I gave. I don’t really set fires.”

  “Are you wearing women’s clothes more than once a week?”

  “No.”

  “Just the brassiere and panties?”

  “What? No! I just put on my sister’s lipstick a couple of times—but just for fun.”

  “Okay, so can you tell me why you want to be a female?”

  “I don’t. Really—I don’t.”

  “Then why would you say that on your test?” He blew smoke into my face.

  “What I meant was that if I were a girl I could have sex with boys.”

  I was amazed to have admitted this. I felt an alarming heat move from my belly up to my head.

  “So, you have homosexual fantasies?”

  “I guess, yeah. I like boys. I mean: I like girls, too. You’re not going to tell my parents about this, are you?”