the beautiful miscellaneous
ALSO BY DOMINIC SMITH
The Mercury Visions of Louis Daguerre
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Dominic Smith
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-5899-6
ISBN-10: 1-4165-5899-3
ATRIA BOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
FOR EMILY
one
As far as near-death experiences go, mine was a disappointment. No bright whirring tunnel or silver-blue mist, just a wave of white noise, a low-set squall coming from an unknown source. I was gone for ninety seconds and spent the next two weeks in a coma. I sometimes imagine the moment when my miniature death ended and the coma began. I picture it like emerging from a bath in absolute darkness.
I woke in a hospital room during the last week of July 1987. I was seventeen and it was the middle of the night. A series of machines stood around my bed, emitting a pale, luminous green. I stared at a heart monitor, mesmerized by the scintilla of my pulse moving across the screen. Tiny drops of clear liquid hovered, then fell inside an IV bag. Voices—muffled and indistinguishable—carried in from a corridor. I felt unable to call out. I lay there quietly, looking up at the ceiling, and waited for someone to confirm that I was back among the living.
two
My parents wanted a genius. My father had achieved a measure of fame in particle physics for his experiments with the quark, and my mother came from an old New England family of clergy and museum curators, men prone to loftiness. Together they waited out my early, unexceptional years, hoping for an epiphany.
When I was nine years old, in the winter of 1979, my father and I drove to Manitoba to watch a solar eclipse. He was hoping this would mark a whole new era for me. On the nighttime drive up from Wisconsin, we passed farms banked in snow and entire prairies of ice. My father talked about the great eclipses of the past, of the one in 1970 when he saw the yellow tail of a comet revealed as the Mid-Atlantic states were shot with half-light. His face was cast with the soft light of the dash and his tangled beard—a cross between a northern woodcutter’s and a German philosopher’s—appeared to be glowing. He talked in bursts and then fell quiet for fifteen-minute stretches. Each time, it felt like we were passing out of the ice flats and into enormous valleys of silence.
As we crossed into Canada from North Dakota, my father listed the benefits of a summer eclipse. “Birds stop singing and go to roost. Flower blossoms close. Honeybees stop flying.” He’d been drinking coffee straight from the thermos and his breath smelled bitter. The word honey smelled the worst, and I pretended to look out my window to get away from it. “Nature thinks it’s naptime, Nathan. What you might call an astral power nap,” he said. In the dimness of the front seat, his small, neat teeth appeared from behind his beard and formed a tight smile. I thought he was going to laugh but then he deadpanned, “Duration will be two minutes and forty-nine seconds.”
“That’s not very long,” I said.
He took his pale, thin hand from the stainless steel thermos and gestured through the dark interior with a flattened palm. “In physics that’s an eternity.” He positioned his hands on the steering wheel at exactly ten and three o’clock but continued to stare at me, waiting, I think, for me to agree that three minutes is really a massive spool of time. I started to nod, but he was already tapping the wheel in a caffeinated sort of way. He switched on the radio and found a hiss of static. “The truth is, Nathan, time is fluid. Do you hear that static?”
“Yeah.”
“Ten percent of it is due to residual microwaves from the Big Bang. It’s all still happening from that one singularity.” Now he shook his head, a little incredulous. That my father didn’t know how to speak to children was widely known in our Wisconsin hometown. I once found him on our front lawn, deep into a rant with the paperboy about parabolic motion.
Although my father was an atheist, this trip was a pilgrimage for him. We were driving through the night to see something that would last less than a Top 40 song. But I was also undergoing a test. My father believed that greatness began with a purifying moment—an awakening. He told me that Einstein, as a convalescing boy, was given a compass and this forever changed his view of the world. It made him want to know the hidden mechanics of the universe. My father had been searching for good omens and epiphanies for a while now—a cosmic champagne bottle to smash over the prow of my youth.
At eight o’clock in the morning, we parked the Oldsmobile on a plowed blacktop and waited for the spectacle. We watched the moon drift toward the rising sun. Vast snowfields, scattered with box elders and limestone boulders, extended before us. There were pockets of bluish shadow spread across the snow. A few brain-shaped clouds plodded north toward the arctic, but otherwise the day was clear. We stayed inside the car with the engine running, trying to keep warm. The heater breathed noisily through the dash, filling the air with a mechanical stutter.
My father pulled back his shirtsleeve and looked at his watch. I could see his spindly wrist and the bald patch he’d scratched on his arm. “Almost showtime,” he said. What he meant by that was an hour of sitting in the cold car watching the moon inch-crawl toward the sun. We hadn’t eaten since Minnesota, and I would have, in those sixty minutes, traded a total solar eclipse for as little as three Fig Newtons. Finally, the moon arced into the solar halo and a small bite appeared at the western edge of the sun. My father retrieved our safety glasses from the glove compartment and we put them on. The light began to change—the deep blue shadows on the snowfields blurred and lightened; narrow bands of light shifted through the bare maple crowns. Everything dappled.
“The shifting light is caused by the sun shining across jagged lunar valleys,” my father said.
“I wish we hadn’t forgotten the hot chocolate,” I said.
He reached for his door.
I said, “Can I stay in here and watch things? Because I think I can see better if the wind isn’t in my eyes.”
He looked at me, O-mouthed and appalled. With his oversize safety glasses he was a parody of a blind man. “Watch things? This isn’t fireworks in somebody’s backyard. This is celestial. This is very big. A big, celestial moment. Now exit the vehicle.”
He turned and opened his car door, stepped out onto the road, and began wandering in the direction of the eclipse. I followed his tall, gangly figure and we began hauling across the fields, snow skirting his knees and my thighs. The air was damp and cut with pine sap. “It looks like incinerating glass,” my father said as he slowed, his head craned upward. I had no idea what incinerating glass might look like, but I imagined it was very bright. Through the safety glasses everything seemed a little flat and brown. We stood perfectly still. A tiny sliver of light remained, a sunburst cresting from behind the dark disk of the moon. We watched it blink, then disappear. Darkness flooded everything. A row of pine trees became an inky, amorphous silhouette. I could hear the deep, slow metronome of my father’s breathing. He had the stilled countenance of a man in prayer.
When the moon fully blocked the sun, the darkness seemed something between dusk and night. My hands were jammed into my pockets and my breath smoked in front of me. Some of the brighter stars had appeared and the great slow clouds had darkened.
In that cindery pall, the facade of the moon cold and white, I could believe we were watching the end of the world.
After the eclipse, a ribbon of sunlight streamed into view, the sun’s corona dimmed, and northern daylight blasted in all directions, as if someone had lifted a veil. My father took off his glasses and squinted his tea-brown eyes against the sudden brightness.
“That was it, Nathan,” he said.
“What?” I whispered.
“Your epiphany and suchlike.”
A long silence.
Finally, I figured things were completed out on the snowfield, so I turned for the car.
“It’s a brand-new day,” he said. “We’ll drive into town and get some breakfast to celebrate.”
“We didn’t have dinner last night,” I said. There was a hint of anger in my voice, and it was somehow amplified by the rising wind.
My father clapped me around the shoulders and attempted a sympathetic laugh. But then he looked off into the white distance and said slowly, “That was the world’s shortest day. So, it’s breakfast at dawn. Buttermilk pancakes for our young Copernicus.”
He tromped toward the road and I followed. We got in the car and I cranked the heater. I was shivering and I tried to exaggerate it by chattering my teeth. It was a statement of protest: a call for food and shelter. Of course, my father didn’t notice. We drove through a series of towns where they sold venison jerky and pork chops but no pancakes. Finally, we gave up and I bought a box of stale Ritz crackers from a general store and we drove on. The Oldsmobile Omega passed through the snowy backcountry, now cloaked in dusk, and my father rambled about the special properties of light, about how there is no such thing as emptiness, about how charged particles can manifest out of the voids of space. The idea of matter appearing in a vacuum seemed to hold certainty for him that we would someday find my gift.
We passed log cabins set back from the road, hunting shacks nestled in the woods; occasionally I’d see the buttery light from a window and wonder about these people’s lives, about what they did up here in the dead of winter and what they might be speaking about during my father’s scientific monologue. I tried to follow what he was saying but I found myself staring into the woods, looking for lighted windows and other signs of normal life.
three
We were a single-child family living in a Victorian house in Wisconsin. It was my mother’s childhood home, inherited from the dead aunt who raised her after my grandparents were killed in a train wreck in New Hampshire. Although my mother often indulged in nontraditional food and clothing—Indian curries, batik shawls, lapis lazuli earrings—she was, deep down, a New England girl and had filled the rooms with family heirlooms. Nantucket baskets, braided rugs, Amish quilts, Shaker sideboards. She believed in the beauty and simplicity of objects. In the summertime, she carefully arranged bowls of damson plums and Michigan peaches and was slightly crestfallen when my father or I removed a piece of fruit to eat it. In the bedroom she shared with my father, her side was lined with antique china dolls and old music boxes, keepsakes from the ten years with her parents. By contrast, my father’s side of the bedroom held piles of yellow legal pads, home-brewing manuals, books on competitive chess, and aging copies of Scientific American. He was known to wake in the middle of the night, take a notepad into the bathroom, switch on the light, and rush something onto an empty page. My mother would find sheets of paper on the bathroom floor the next morning, scratchy vector diagrams and Greek-lettered equations.
Each day, when my father went to work at the college where he taught physics and I went to the Jesuit school for boys, my mother had the place to herself. After swimming laps at the YWCA pool each morning, she returned home and did housework for several hours while listening to NPR. She was a news junkie, keeping up with Australian elections and African civil wars. Sometimes she talked back to the radio—“You’ve got your head in the sand!” and “Leave it to the politicians!”—while mopping the hardwood floors or kneading bread in the kitchen. Occasionally she had friends over for lunch, and most afternoons she spent an hour reading English novels before trying a dinner recipe from a foreign cookbook and serving my father and me a strange but usually delicious meal at six thirty sharp. We arrived home to Ethiopian stews and Peruvian soups. After dinner, my father slinked off to his study—the one room my mother was not allowed to clean—and drank one of his home brews while listening to jazz albums and working on obscure physics problems. For several hours the banter of news radio was quelled and the house filled with the shuffling bass of Charles Mingus, the brassy drawl of Duke Ellington, the syncopated cool of Dave Brubeck, the riffing out-of-timeness of Thelonious Monk. I think that for my father jazz offered a kind of deliverance from ordinary time, the way it bent and warped individual notes and intervals; it was a craft that could be as esoteric and rigorous as quantum theory.
My mother and I heard his records from the kitchen, where I did my homework and she washed the dishes. We could tell how my father’s night was going by what he played. If things sounded jumpy and off-kilter—Dizzy Gillespie’s “A Night in Tunisia”—then he was getting frustrated. But if Ellington’s Uptown album played, we knew he was forging ahead: “Take the ‘A’ Train” would bound down the hallway—“Listen to these rails a-humming”—making my mother sway and shimmy at the sink. One night, her hands submerged in dishwater, she said to me, “Your father has taught me to like jazz and I’ve taught him to put a napkin on his lap when he eats. Does that sound like a fair trade?” I looked up from my homework and said, “When you’re not around he eats sardines straight from the can.” My mother flicked some soapsuds at me and continued to move with the music. Perhaps she thought I was kidding.
After I went to bed my parents sat in the room my mother insisted on calling the parlor. It was really a normal, middle-class living room, except we did not own a television—a source of early estrangement for me at school. From the top of the stairs I would sometimes secretly peer down at them. As an only child I was always looking for signs of my parents’ private world, waiting for the uncensored words they might say to each other after a glass of wine or a bottle of homemade porter. The two of them reclined in pools of lamplight. In winter, an oak fire burned in the fireplace. My mother sat with a novel splayed on her lap, sipping a glass of claret. Scented candles burned from the mantel while the low hum of Dixieland sifted in from the study, an occasional rattle of trumpets. My father read an academic journal, drained his beer, tapped along to the music in his stocking feet. They seemed content enough. Every now and then my mother would make a comment about her book, share a funny line or phrase. It would take my father a moment to be wrested from his article, but he would always make the effort to look up and grin or nod. I knew, and I’m sure my mother knew, that he was faking his responses. He hadn’t read a novel since grade school and seemed incapable of investing himself in a narrative. Movies, fiction, even newspapers largely washed over him. He had fond boyhood memories of watching Groucho Marx, the Three Stooges , Laurel and Hardy, but precisely because each moment stood in its own right; they were comedies of distilled cause and effect. One night, after my mother read a lyrical passage aloud from Tess of the d’Urbervilles, my father chided, “They mention the weather a lot in that story you’re reading.” My mother stared at him, blew some air between her lips, and returned to her book.
ONCE A MONTH, SOMETIMES MORE, this homely existence came undone when my father had a migraine attack. He had the classic onset—an intuition of the coming pain, a tingling sensation in his fingers, flickering lights in his peripheral vision. My mother and I kept out of his way and for an entire day he fussed, trying to find refuge from sunlight and the noise of the furnace. He ran into things, recoiled, and headed in the other direction, like a wasp looking for strongholds.
My mother locked the doors to certain rooms for fear that my father, like some deranged sleepwalker, would ransack her sewing room or break the robust Shaker furniture apart. One time he did knock a bo
wl of Concord grapes onto the hardwood floor and mash them with his bare feet without noticing. And she never forgot it. But usually when the pain arrived, it was so literal and pure that my father physically shrank and retreated to his study. His shoulders hunched, his brow pinched, his eyes vacant. Surprisingly, in this state, my father would have some of his best insights about physics. He explained this once by saying that on a cloudy day you can get the worst sunburn because only the strongest solar radiation penetrates the clouds. “Insight cuts through the cloud cover of pain,” he told me.
When it was over, usually the next morning, he would appear in the kitchen, blearing as if through a hangover. He drank a cup of black coffee in silence, tasting each sip. Then he would say things like, “The body thinks it’s real. That’s the problem of modern physics. How to convince our minds that they’re not our own.” My mother and I knew better than to respond. She made him bacon and eggs. I buttered his toast. We were more curious than scared. He was like a wild animal we’d brought in from the woods, a half-man waiting to be civilized. He tasted food as if for the first time and rationed his eye movements. After breakfast he would disappear to his study and spend most of the day there combing through the notes he’d made while dazed with pain. Months later, we would learn that in the midst of the migraine, he had conceived a groundbreaking theory about the nature of subatomic charm and spin.
four
Being less than brilliant with a genius parent is like being the bum who stares, midwinter, through the restaurant window at the plump diners inside. There was my father, on the other side of that window, eating food so delicate and sumptuous it made my teeth ache. The seat opposite him was empty and expectant, but I never made it past the glass.
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