Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day

by Ben Loory

  In the gray light of the darkened museum, the man becomes aware of something strange. There is actually a figure painted on the shield—painted there almost transparently. It is a horse—a white, winged horse.

  The man holds the shield up to admire it.

  Then he slides it down onto his arm, and mimes a sword fight across the museum floor.

  The man fights and fights and fights and fights, and then he fights some more, and then he fights just a little more; and then he takes a break; and then he fights some more; and then he fights and fights a little more.

  Finally, after hours and hours, the man is completely spent. He is dripping with sweat, and his muscles ache.

  Thank you, shield, the man says. I’ll see you again sometime.

  And he puts it back up on the wall, and goes out to the car.

  That night the man lies in bed with his wife.

  I can’t believe you did that, she says. You jeopardized everything—everything we have.

  Everything? the man says. Like what?

  Your freedom, our money, our reputation, says his wife. You would have lost your job if you’d been caught.

  My job, says the man, making a noise of disgust.

  What exactly are you trying to do? says his wife.

  Trying to do? the man says. I’m not trying to do anything. I just like the shield; that’s all.

  The next day, the man goes back to the museum again. It is during business hours, so the place is very crowded. It takes the man quite some time to elbow his way through all the people down the hall to medieval arms.

  And then, when he gets there, he finds something terrible. The shield—his shield—is no longer there.

  In its place on the wall hangs only a sword.

  The man stands in silence and stares at it.

  Where is the shield that was hanging there yesterday? the man says to the guard on duty.

  What shield? says the guard. That sword’s been hanging there for as long as I can remember.

  The man looks back in confusion to the sword. The sword is not the shield, any way you look at it.

  Can I touch it? he says.

  If you want to go to jail, says the guard. It’s your choice; doesn’t matter much to me.

  The man stands and stands there.

  And then, suddenly, he lunges.

  The fight lasts for a long time. With the sword, the man is invincible. The guard has a gun, but really can’t use it. The man swings the sword around in a protective circle.

  I just want the shield, the man yells. Just give me the shield and I’ll go!

  That night the man sits in jail. His wife was supposed to bail him out, but she didn’t. The man sits there and frowns. Then he hears someone humming.

  An old man sits beside him on the bench.

  Hello, says the old man.

  Good evening, says the man. What did they get you for?

  Vagrancy, the old man says. Nothing too exciting. What about you? You don’t look like much of a lawbreaker.

  Well, the man says, I had an altercation at the museum.

  Ah, the old man says. The shield?

  You know it? says the man. His eyes go very wide.

  Well of course, the old man says. Doesn’t everyone?

  The man doesn’t know where to start with the questions, but it turns out the old man knows nothing.

  It’s the drink, the old man says. Really, I’m sorry. I just have a lot of memory problems.

  When the man gets out of jail, his wife drives him home.

  Look, the man says, I want a divorce.

  You’re not the only one, says his wife. Let’s do it. In fact, let’s do it tomorrow.

  The proceedings are begun. The man moves out. He gets a small apartment on the cheap side of town. His stuff sits in boxes; he has an old chair from Goodwill.

  Luckily, the two never had children.

  The man goes to work every day as usual. He comes home, eats something, watches TV. Sometimes at night he goes out for a stroll.

  One night, he goes by the museum.

  It is dark outside, of course—like it was when he broke in. But now the place appears heavily guarded. There is a fence, and a guard with a big dog and a gun. The man stares up at the window where he squeezed in.

  He thinks about that night in the silent museum hall, the night he spent with the shield.

  Those were the good times, the man remembers. The days when anything seemed possible.

  The man finds himself whistling on the way home. He doesn’t know when it started, or what the song is. It’s a strange song—though familiar—and as he whistles it, it starts to remind him of something.

  It reminds him of a place he once went before, a place beautiful and very far away. And the remembrance of that place seems to spur him on, and suddenly he’s picking up the pace. Suddenly he’s jogging down the middle of the road, and then he breaks into a run. And then he’s running as fast as he can, and it feels like he’s about to take off. By the time the man gets to the cheap side of town, he’s never felt so good in his life. And he blows right by that dingy apartment and off into wide open space.

  THE MARTIAN

  A MAN AND A WOMAN GO TO VISIT A FAMOUS ASTRONAUT.

  What was it like on the moon? says the man.

  Did you see any Martians? says his wife.

  It was nice, says the astronaut, answering them each in turn, and no, ma’am, I did not see any Martians.

  Hmmph, thinks the wife, well what fun is that?

  The three of them sit down to dinner. Halfway through the soup course, a Martian enters the room. It takes the astronaut’s napkin and lays it across his lap. Then it turns around and walks out.

  I thought you said you didn’t see any Martians, says the woman.

  Not on the moon, says the astronaut, no.

  The woman excuses herself and goes into the kitchen. The Martian is busy cooking asparagus.

  Do you need any help? says the woman. I’m pretty good in the kitchen.

  No thanks, says the Martian. I’m doing okay. You go enjoy your meal.

  But I’d like to get to know you, says the woman. It’s not every day you meet a Martian.

  I meet them all the time, the Martian says to her.

  Yes, but, well, you know what I mean, the woman says.

  The Martian busies itself with the asparagus.

  Are you a man Martian or a woman Martian? says the woman—with a certain degree of embarrassment.

  We don’t have those, says the Martian. Why?

  Just wondering, says the woman. I guess because you’re cooking. Down here, mostly women cook.

  Your husband doesn’t cook? says the Martian.

  Not really, says the woman. No.

  But he eats, right? says the Martian.

  Yes, says the woman. Quite a bit.

  The Martian says nothing for some time.

  I really need to get some work done here, it says. That is, of course, if you don’t mind.

  The woman returns to the table. Her husband is talking to the astronaut about stocks and bonds.

  That’s very interesting, says the astronaut.

  Yes, says the woman’s husband. Isn’t it?

  The rest of the meal is quite tasty. Afterward, the man and the woman and the astronaut enjoy a drink in the den.

  Would you like to play pool? says the astronaut.

  Oh, I don’t think so, says the man, glancing at his wife. I think Sally wants to go home.

  I don’t mind, says his wife. I’ll just sit here and watch.

  The man and the astronaut play pool.

  Meanwhile, the woman slowly wanders around the room, looking at the pictures on the walls. She sees pictures of the astronaut flying through space, pictures of the astronaut with the president, pictures of the astronaut sitting by the pool.

  Nowhere is there one of him with the Martian.

  Why do you think he has no pictures of the Martian in his house? the woman says on the drive
home.

  I don’t know, says her husband. Maybe it doesn’t like having its picture taken.

  Why would that be? says the woman.

  I don’t know, says the man. I’m not a Martian.

  No, says the woman, looking over. No, I guess you’re not.

  That night the woman has a dream.

  In the dream she is a big shiny rocket flying through space. There is a Martian outside her window, and it is trying to get in. The woman is pulling at the door, trying to open it, but somehow it seems to be stuck. An alarm bell is ringing, and a red light is flashing.

  You can’t let the Martian in! the woman says, as she suddenly starts from her dream.

  Just then, downstairs, the doorbell rings.

  The woman goes downstairs and stands by the door.

  Who is it? she says, adjusting her robe.

  It’s me, says the Martian. Let me in.

  The woman stands there for a minute, thinking.

  It’s very late, she finally says. It is a little awkward.

  The Martian says nothing for some time.

  Are you going to let me in? it finally says.

  And the woman opens the door.

  The Martian moves into the guest room. It hangs up a picture of space on the wall. It asks for an alarm clock and a very warm blanket. Then it goes right to sleep.

  How long do you think it’ll stay? the woman asks her husband.

  I don’t know, says her husband, you invited it.

  Me? says the woman. That’s not true! I didn’t!

  Well, you didn’t turn it away, he says, and goes off to the den.

  The woman watches the Martian while her husband is at work. The Martian wanders around the house straightening things. It straightens photos, piles of books, pens on tables, napkins. It straightens everything.

  Then it starts to vacuum.

  You don’t have to do that, says the woman.

  The Martian stares at her and says nothing.

  It’s really not necessary, says the woman.

  The Martian simply vacuums on.

  In the evening the Martian makes dinner.

  I know how to make dinner, says the woman.

  But the Martian ignores her and keeps on cooking. The woman gets some carrots from the fridge and neatly chops them up. She feels like she ought to be doing something.

  How’s that? she finally says. Need any carrots?

  The Martian dumps them into the soup and carries on.

  The man and the woman sit at the dinner table. The Martian brings the soup and wanders off.

  The Martian is making me very nervous, says the woman. I really wish it would go.

  Did you tell it to? says the man.

  No, says the woman. I don’t know how.

  How? says the man. You just say it.

  I don’t want to hurt its feelings, says the woman. You know? I mean, after all, it is from Mars.

  She puts considerable emphasis on the word Mars.

  The man thinks for some time.

  You want me to do it for you? he says.

  Yes, says the woman. Would you mind?

  That evening, the man takes the Martian into the study and closes the door behind them. The woman listens at the wall, but she can’t hear a thing.

  Finally, the Martian emerges. It goes downstairs and starts to pack its things. It puts the alarm clock and the blanket in the hall, and removes the picture of space from the wall.

  Then it moves toward the front door.

  Good-bye, Martian, says the woman, hurrying after it. I’m sorry for the way this has all worked out.

  The Martian turns and looks up at her.

  It’s okay, it says, not to worry. If you’re ever in the neighborhood, stop by.

  And with that, the Martian lifts up off the ground and gently whirrs away into the night.

  It wasn’t really that bad, I guess, says the woman in bed that night to her husband. I think maybe I just overreacted.

  Perhaps, says her husband. Perhaps. Who knows? It was fun while it lasted; now we’re on to the next thing.

  And he kisses her and rolls over and closes his eyes and sleeps.

  That night the woman has another dream. In this dream, she is falling, falling. It is some kind of awful pit, and she is falling into it. Then she hears a strange whirring noise, and something takes her in its arms.

  It lifts her up out of the dark and flies her high into the sky, and then puts her down atop a mountain overlooking an endless sea.

  Is this Mars? the woman thinks, looking out over the water. This rolling, blue sea—this is Mars?

  In the morning, the alarm clock awakens her with a start. She goes downstairs and makes a cup of tea. In the paper there is an article about the famous astronaut. There is a photo of him beside the Washington Monument. There is a smile on his face and he is waving at the camera.

  A small antennaed figure is by his side.

  My Martian, says the woman, touching the tiny gray image with one finger.

  My Martian, she says, it’s you.

  THE LITTLE GIRL AND THE BALLOON

  A LITTLE GIRL FOUND A BALLOON LYING IN THE STREET, and she cried and ran all the way home.

  But Annie, what’s wrong? said the girl’s mother. It was just a balloon, just a balloon.

  But Annie couldn’t say what the problem was; or if she could, she just wouldn’t say.

  That night the mother had a terrible dream. In the dream, Annie was a balloon. She floated up out of her bed and through the open window and away across the sky toward the moon.

  Come back! yelled the mother. Come back, Annie!

  But Annie didn’t come back; she went on.

  The next day the mother did not let Annie go out.

  Why not? said Annie. Is it because of the balloon?

  Yes, said the mother. Yes, in fact, it is. The balloon is dangerous and we must all stay inside.

  So Annie and her mother stayed inside. They stayed inside for a very long time. They had little tea parties and read books together. It was great fun, but it got dull after a while.

  Can we go outside now? said Annie one day. I’m sure the balloon is gone now, don’t you think?

  But the mother shook her head very severely.

  No, she said, the balloon is not gone. The balloon, in fact, will never be gone. So we must all stay inside forever and ever; we must stay here until the very end of time. I’m sorry, dear, but it’s for your own good.

  That night when Annie lay in bed, she thought about her friends at school. She thought about the little tree she used to pass every day on the way to piano lessons.

  I don’t want to stay inside forever, she said, and so she got out of bed.

  And she opened the window and climbed onto the ledge and floated up up and away.

  In the morning the mother found Annie’s bedroom empty, and then she saw the window wide open.

  Annie! she cried. Annie, come back! Annie, can you hear me? Please come home!

  But Annie didn’t come back; she didn’t even answer. In fact, there was no response at all. Just a cool, rustling breeze that swept the leaves from the trees, and in the distance, a faint, expected pop.

  THE POET

  A MAN SITS DOWN AND WRITES A POEM. IT IS NOT A great poem, he knows, but still, he has written it, and so it makes him feel proud. Everywhere he goes, he recites it in his head.

  Then one day the man has a great idea.

  I will send my poem off to be published! he says.

  And so he goes and buys an envelope and sends it on its way.

  Many weeks later, the poem comes back.

  It has been rejected.

  The man is sad.

  I knew it was not a great poem, he thinks to himself. But still, I thought it was pretty good.

  A moment later, he becomes very angry.

  Who are they to say what’s good and bad? he thinks. They probably never wrote a poem in their life!

  And so he decides to send his poem
out again.

  The man sends the poem out many, many times, and every time it comes back rejected.

  This is crazy, the man thinks. This world is insane! What the hell is wrong with these people?

  So the man decides to publish his poem himself. He takes it down to the corner store and makes fourteen thousand copies. Then he wanders all over the city handing them to people and taping them onto signposts and sliding them under doors and folding them into paper airplanes and launching them off buildings. He does this for days and days and days and days and days, until finally all his copies are gone. Then he goes home and collapses on the couch.

  I have done everything I can do, he thinks, and turns on the TV.

  The TV is full of news about the man. Or, rather, news about his poem. Everyone is talking about it. Everyone—everyone! People on the street are being interviewed.

  I think it is pretty good, one person says. I think it is a pretty good poem.

  It’s not the best poem I have ever read, says another, but it is free, and that’s good for me.

  I didn’t like it, a third person says. But then again, I don’t really like poetry.

  Bah, says the man, and turns the TV off.

  Just then there is a knock on the door.

  The man stands up and walks over and opens the door.

  There is a very pretty lady outside.

  Are you the man who wrote that poem? the lady says to him.

  I am, says the man. Who are you?

  I am a writer for a famous magazine, she says. I’d like to interview you about your life and poem. Would that be okay?