Black Horizon

by Robert Masello

  He went inside, and once he'd made sure it came in an uninflated state, bought it. The thought of giving it to her made him smile now and then, all the way to the bus station.

  The ride out, against the morning rush, was relatively quick and painless. Had it been longer, he might almost have fallen asleep—the combination of the long walk to the station, the warmth of the bus, and the humming of the engine made him feel pleasantly drowsy and light-headed.

  He got off the bus one stop early, to enjoy a short walk along Boulevard East. On his right, about a hundred feet down and the same distance over, ran the steel-gray Hudson River. At an observation point, Jack stopped and, resting his elbows on the rail, looked out, over the blackened piers that jutted from the New Jersey side, and across the water to New York . . . where everyone went to get famous, even if only for fifteen minutes. Sprague, he reflected, had offered him his fifteen minutes the day before, and he had refused. Everything had already been arranged—he was to appear in a live interview with Bonnie Robb on the local newscast—but Jack had said no as soon as Sprague had brought it up. “Why?” Sprague had demanded, and even Jack had had to think about it before he knew.

  “Because I'm not some performing seal,” he'd said. “If I go on that show with you and Zakin, I'll feel like some freak, some stuntman who brings people back from the dead when he hasn't got anything better to do. And I'll feel like a fake too—I still don't know exactly what I can and can't do, and neither do you. But that's not what channel four will say; I've seen those shows. If they don't decide to expose me as some sort of fraud, they'll have me sounding like the Messiah before they're through. And if that happens, we'll have every nut-case, and every terminal hospital patient, in New York calling in.”

  “We already have had a few of those.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Then let me make mine. No, we haven't ascertained all that you can do, or, for that matter, how you do it. Can you restore life after it's been gone for hours, or even days? Can you actually cure people of terminal ailments? Do you have to be in physical contact for your powers to work? No, we don't know those answers yet. But we're getting there; every test we do, even if it proves negative, eliminates one more possibility —and eventually we'll arrive at the right tests, and the right answers. In the meantime, maybe we can offer hope to people who are dying, or who feel there's no meaning to life as we live it.”

  “You mean people like Ruben Garcia?”

  That had stopped him for a moment. He'd licked his lips, as if wondering what Jack might know, before saying, “Garcia has since died.”

  “And he was a suspected murderer?”

  “No, I don't know what gave you that idea. He's a suspected homicide victim.”

  Had Jack gotten it wrong? “Be that as it may, he's dead now. And that was his brain we just weighed downstairs.”

  Sprague hadn't bothered to deny it.

  “So what good did it do for me to save him? What good does it do for me to save anyone? We're all going to die one day -- we're supposed to die, for God's sake! Who am I to go running around changing things, bringing back one guy and letting another one rot, making life-and-death decisions over people I don't even know, thwarting, for all I know, some kind of divine plan?”

  “Maybe you are some part of a divine plan,” Sprague had retorted. “Did that ever occur to you -- that what we're uncovering at the institute is something that's now meant to be uncovered, and broadcast to the world?”

  If what he'd wanted was to unsettle him, he'd succeeded.

  Jack felt like he'd been rocked back onto his heels.

  “I won't press you about the show next Tuesday. Just give it a little more thought. . . And I still want that copy of your birth certificate.”

  His birth certificate. . . and whatever clues that might provide. Jack watched now as a huge ocean liner slowly made its way down the river and out to sea. What would there be on his birth certificate to interest Sprague? Mam had asked him why he needed it, and Jack had said he wanted to get a passport. That, of course, had prompted her to ask where he was planning to go, and Jack had had to make up something about a possible trip to Mexico with his friend Vinnie, from the show. Fortunately, by now she'd probably forgotten everything about the cover story, and if he was lucky, the birth certificate business, too. She'd said it was probably stashed in a trunk in the attic, and he'd go up there and find it on his own. Mam would just think he'd come for a visit.

  A young Hispanic couple, holding hands, joined him at the observation rail, and Jack bequeathed it to them. He thought again of the inflatable toy he was carrying for Nancy. He walked the two blocks to the house, and when he got there, carted the empty garbage can away from the front curb -- pickup was still apparently on Friday morning -- and dragged it around to the side of the house. A lace curtain was pulled back as he did so, and he saw Clancy looking out.

  “Morning, sir,” Jack called. “Part of our new sanitation policy -- replacing the can.”

  Clancy dropped the curtain, and by the time Jack came around to the front, he had left the door open.

  “Keep your voice down,” he said from the kitchen. “Mam had a bad night, and she's still sleeping.”

  Jack hung his coat on a peg in the hall, went back to the kitchen where Clancy was sitting at the table with the Bergen Record spread out in front of him and a mug of instant coffee, the spoon sticking out, in one hand.

  “The water's still hot; make yourself some coffee if you want.”

  Jack did, while Clancy rustled the pages of the paper, then pulled out one of the dinette chairs with striped yellow seats and sat down.

  “She had a rough night?”

  “Yeah,” Clancy replied, taking the spoon from his mug and dropping it on the paper. “When she wakes up, I think I better run her over to the clinic.”

  “What'll they do?”

  “Who knows? Something. . . then send me a bill.” He sipped noisily from his mug. “What's up with you?”

  Jack left out everything of consequence, told him the show was still hanging in there, that work was fine, that he was even thinking of taking a little vacation in Mexico. Clancy looked as though this was the first he'd heard of it.

  “Didn't Mam tell you I was coming out today? I need my birth certificate for the passport office.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Clancy said, leaning back in his chair. “I remember now.” He shook his head. “The days all run the hell together now; I don't know if it's Thursday or Friday till I look in the paper. And then, when I do, I think, ‘So what?’ Makes no difference what day it is. I've got nothing to do.”

  Jack had heard this lament before. . . and again he suggested Clancy find some hobby he'd enjoy, or look up some other retired workers from the plant and see what they were up to, or find a part-time job that wouldn't interfere with his Social Security benefits. But Clancy had an excuse for every suggestion, a reason why none of it would ever work, and Jack knew, at heart, that Clancy was afraid to leave Mam alone in the house, or for that matter, attended by anyone but himself. But while Clancy was taking care of Mam, who was taking care of Clancy?

  “Is that all you're having for breakfast?” Jack asked. “Why don't you let me make you some eggs or something?”

  “Nah, I'll do that later, after Mam wakes up. Here,” he said, sliding one hand under the outspread paper, “have one of these.” He pulled out a half-empty package of Stella D'oro Breakfast Treats.

  “I knew something was missing,” Jack said, with a laugh. As long as he could remember, Stella D'oro cookies had been a part of Clancy's day. As a boy, Jack had never understood how Clancy could eat them -- they had no goop, and weren't nearly sweet enough. ‘Tell me something,” he said, fishing one of the cookies from the box. “Did you always keep these around because you knew I wouldn't raid them?”

  “What? These?”

  “Because if you did,” Jack said, “there's something you should know.” He crunched loudly into the cookie. “I l
ike ‘em now.”

  Clancy gave him a level stare, then slowly smiled. “I got ‘em,” Clancy said, “ ‘cause they were cheap.” Looking down to brush some crumbs from the front of his cardigan, he added, “I never even knew you didn't like ‘em.” He looked up. “Ask Mam if you don't believe me.”

  “I will,” Jack said, “just as soon as she wakes up.”

  “Well, don't you be the one to wake her. If you're going into the attic, don't make a racket.”

  “I won't.” Jack got up without pushing his chair back, lifting one leg over it. He was anxious to begin the search, and

  not only for the birth certificate: he wanted to see if there was anything else -- photos in particular -- of his mother up there, anything that might confirm, or help him to understand somehow, what he thought he'd seen and heard. He crept up the front stairs to the second floor, past the ticking grandfather clock. The moon above the churchyard showed three-quarters full. At Mam's door, which had been left a few inches ajar, he glanced in. But all he could see, without moving the door and risking a loud creak, was the foot of her bed, piled high with comforters. He put his ear to the crack, but he couldn't hear a thing. . . only the ticking of the clock on the landing.

  At the far end of the hall, outside Clancy's bedroom, there was a trapdoor in the ceiling, with a braided rope hanging down. Jack gave it a gentle tug, which accomplished nothing, then a less gentle tug, which did: the door dropped down, and Jack made sure it came slowly, noiselessly. He opened out the folding metal stairs, which were attached to its upper surface, and, holding the handrail, climbed up. Dust coated his ringer-tips, and the musty cold smell that he remembered from his boyhood, from those rare occasions when he would accompany Mam up here to collect the Christmas tree ornaments or the rotating fan, came back to him in a rush. The attic had always been something of an adventure. . . and at the same time vaguely frightening. Even now, he was glad to find the hanging cord for the overhead light and switch it on; uncovered, the bulb threw a bright, stark light around the cluttered space. The walls were slanted like the roof of the house and between the exposed beams lay gray woolly beds of insulation. As a boy, he had always been deathly afraid of stepping into one of them and falling into a gray, suffocating nowhere land. He thought, for a second, of that night in Garcia's cell, but just as quickly suppressed it. He had more immediate things to think about.

  Like where to start looking for the birth certificate. Amid the rest of the junk -- the worn-out armchairs, the lampshades, the Christmas boxes, a broken TV set with the antenna sticking straight up -- there was a pile of battered old suitcases and a scratched-up steamer trunk. Looking at them, Jack thought it might have been easier, after all, to go the City Hall route, and ask them to dig out a copy of his birth certificate. But he'd come this far, and he'd at least take a shot at unearthing it.

  Unzipping the suitcase on the top of the stack, he found it filled with faded linen tablecloths and curtains and pillowcases. The one underneath it was crammed with old clothes. Why had Mam even bothered to keep this stuff? Lifting the second suitcase off the stack, he cleared the top of the steamer trunk, flipped the latches, and raised the lid. More old clothes, with the same aroma of mothballs, but these were neatly pressed and packed, with tissue between the layers. They were women's clothes, but clearly not Mam's. There were fringed skirts and leather vests, and bulked beneath them, a cloth jacket with white vinyl sleeves. Carefully, Jack removed the jacket from the trunk and held it up to the glaring light. It was very familiar: the navy blue wool, the white piping. On the back, above the school emblem of a snarling wildcat, it said “Weehawken High” in white felt letters, and then “ ‘65.”

  It was a senior class jacket, the kind Jack had worn too, but this one was smaller, and quite a bit older. This one, he knew, must have belonged to his mother. Along with everything else in the trunk. That would explain why Mam had preserved it all so carefully; these weren't just old clothes. These were memories. . . all she had left of her daughter. For Jack, it was like hitting the mother lode.

  Hardly taking his eyes off the open trunk, he dragged one of the armchairs over beside it. He tossed the plastic cover aside, releasing a sudden cloud of dust, and once it had dispersed, sat down. He took the top layer of tissue paper out of the trunk and laid it down on the wooden floorboards. Then, one by one, he lifted the garments out, holding them up in the light, studying them as if he were an archaeologist cataloguing the contents of some ancient, just-discovered tomb. In a way, he thought, that's just what he was doing -- rifling the tomb of his mother, to uncover a past that was his own. He studied each piece of clothing for clues; what did the color say about his mother's personality? What did the shape and size say about her body? Why, he wondered in passing, had Mam chosen to select and preserve these particular items? He felt as if he had been presented with a wealth of information, which he had only to properly decode.

  There were other things in the trunk too; on the right side, he found a high school yearbook and quickly flipped to the photos in the back. His mother, Mary Elizabeth Logan, had her head tilted back and she was smiling so widely it looked as if she was about to dissolve into laughter. It was a nice photo, but unusual: all the other faces, lining the page above and below her, were more composed, sober. Mary Elizabeth looked as if she thought the whole thing was a joke and she couldn't begin to take it seriously.

  Below the yearbook, there was a trophy from a Girl Scout summer camp, a framed diploma, and a red velvet jewelry box. Jack lifted the box out as if it were made of eggshells, and rested it on his knees. He nudged the chair around so that the light from the ceiling fell directly on it, then pried the box open. It wasn't locked, but just sticky with time and disuse. A paper clipping fluttered against the raised lid. It was from St. Ignatius Church, the church Mam and Clancy still attended, and had been neatly scissored on all sides. Flattening it against his palm, Jack saw that it was a special plea to the parishioners to include in their prayers “Mary Elizabeth Logan, victim of a tragic accident, and the unborn child she carries.”

  Unborn child? Jack sat perfectly still in the chair, trying to absorb it. Unborn child? His mother was pregnant again at the time of her death? He had always been given to understand she had died only a week or two after his birth. Could it have been later than that? How much later? Was he six months old? A year? Two years? How far back, he wondered, could children normally remember? Was it possible he could actually remember his mother, if only he tried hard enough? He could understand why Mam and Clancy might not have mentioned to him that she was pregnant again at the time of her death -- what good would that have done -- but why hadn't they leveled with him on when she died? What difference would that have made?

  Listlessly, he dropped the clipping back into the open lid of the box. With one hand, he rummaged through the jewelry inside -- beads and barrettes, thin gold necklaces, oversized earrings with feathers attached. A lot of Indian-looking stuff. He half hoped, half feared, he would come across the blue and silver bracelet he thought he'd seen on the wrist of the apparition. But if such a thing ever had existed, it didn't now -- at least not in this box.

  He closed the lid and put the box back into the trunk. He had lost his taste for exploration today. All he wanted now was to find the birth certificate -- if it was even up here -- and go back to New York. He filled the steamer trunk with everything he'd taken out, and looked around for any likely place Mam might have stored the papers.

  Mam, who'd lied to him about something as important as when his mother had died.

  He went through another suitcase -- Clancy's old work clothes -- and two cardboard cartons filled with cheap glassware and cutlery. He was about to call it a day when he noticed a metal footlocker with BROOKLYN NAVY YARD stenciled on the side. It was peeking out from behind a stack of folded-up tray tables. Should he bother? Clancy, in his youth, had worked at the Navy Yard; the locker probably held his old tools. He was debating what to do when Clancy himself spoke from the ha
llway below.

  “You still up there?”

  “Yes.” Jack crept to the open hatchway.

  “You've got a cold draft blowing down here,” Clancy said, still trying to keep his voice low. “I don't want Mam catching a chill.”

  “Sorry. Fold up the stair for me, and close the door. I can let it down again from this side.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure.” He'd check the footlocker, and then call it quits.

  Clancy closed him in. It was getting cold up here. Jack pulled the foot locker out into the light and shook it; it didn't clang the way it would have if there had been tools inside. If anything, it sort of rustled, as if it did indeed hold paper. Maybe the certificate was in here. Talk about the last place you look, Jack thought.

  He tried to raise the hasp, but saw then that it was locked. It occurred to him that he could drag it downstairs and go ! looking for the key with Clancy -- or he could look for some-thing to pry it open with then and there. In the box that had held the cutlery, he found a stained old soup spoon with a strong but narrow handle. Wedging the handle under the lock, he pressed outward. At first, the spoon bent, then the lock did. Jack pressed harder, and the lock, already rusted through, disintegrated. Squatting on his heels, he raised the lid, which came up with a rough grating sound, and saw all kinds of papers and documents and receipts loosely jumbled together. Success at last? The first slip he read was a pay stub from April 1956. The next was a Blue Cross form. He started to sift through a lot of it, giving each piece a quick glance before putting it aside. At the bottom, he spotted a manila envelope, with the clasp sealed. He undid it, and poured out the papers inside. These were newspaper clippings, yellowed with age, and roughly torn from wherever they'd been printed. He carefully unfolded a couple, spread them out on the floor, and leaned back to read them in the light falling over his shoulder. The first, probably from the Bergen Record, said “Logan Baby Born: Mother Removed from Life-Sustaining Equipment.” And the second, which looked as though it had come from some tabloid, had a photo of Jack's mother -- the very picture that had run in her yearbook -- under a larger photo of a squalling newborn in the arms of a black nurse. The caption read “Jack Patrick Logan, delivered yesterday, getting a lungful of life at last.” But it was the headline that knocked Jack backwards, off his heels and onto the dusty wood floor.