by Robert Stone
Violently she shook her arm free.
“Am I making too much noise, Stevie sweetheart?”
Brookman put his hands out toward her, palms open. He thought his house door had opened wider behind him and took in a whiff of the kindly scents from inside. He turned and saw Ellie standing in the doorway.
Maud had caught sight of Ellie. She shouted at the top of her voice: “Are we disturbing the peaceful nest of your loving female duckies in there? Hi, folks! God bless your happy home, you assholes. Hey Miz Brookman, Miz Kiddo Brookman, everybody knocked up in there? You showing yet? I want to see.”
A car passed, slowing down, its tires hushing under its brakes on the slippery asphalt. He looked over Maud’s shoulder and saw the car’s wobbly halt, an old Camry like his own. It took traction and sped on. There were more people on the street now, a few more lights around, passersby attracted or repelled by the melee.
“Stay inside,” Brookman told his wife. When he ventured another look she was still in the doorway.
Maud took a step, a spring toward his door. He moved to intercept her. He had the sense there were more people around, more traffic. Moving hard, he put a low shoulder between his house and Maud, and that was when she started punching. Her first blow was a solid hook that turned his head sideways and came back elbow-first into his molars, which stopped him. Trying to stay up, he saw her charge, head down, almost succeeding in butting him, throwing an uppercut that missed.
More and more people gathered. Maud tried to pass him, feinted on one leg, made her move on the other. He kept his hands out, trying to keep himself between her and his front door. She let the plastic garment fall, wrapped it around her forearm and began to use it as a whip. He backed away and she charged him, punching with the anorak in her hand. Now her punches were heedless and, he thought, harmless, but one caught him on the side of his jaw. He lost his balance on the slippery sidewalk but stayed up.
“Maud! Please, Maud!” He was trying to shout down the violence of her attack.
Then she raised her head and wailed, shaking it from side to side, and she looked so piteous and stricken that out of lost love or mercy Brookman stepped out and took hold of her with both hands. The margins of the surrounding crowd withdrew; no one made a move toward them. Suddenly it seemed he and Maud were alone in the street, and a full rising scream rose from the crowd, getting louder and louder.
“Maud.” He had lost his voice and could not raise it above the cry of the crowd around him. He was holding Maud and she was fighting him, both of them sliding on the sleety crust whitening the surface of the street. He could feel her bracing to run as the noise of the crowd grew louder. For a second he had a good hold on her, but she struggled free as if to run, and he grabbed her again.
People in the screaming crowd were shouting, “Watch out! Watch!” He heard Ellie shouting too. He looked over his shoulder and saw his wife come toward him, screaming too: “Watch out!”
Then Maud broke clean and turned, and as she did, an approaching car, like a black airplane, a thing out of empty space, tossed her in front of it. He would keep what he would always believe had to be a false memory of her falling like a booted Icarus out of a lighted sky in which there was somehow falling snow and her mouth open in a lovely O that had started to shape a word, and her long legs against the electric light, shooting out of the blue plastic square that rose like a kite lifting on a whirlwind and one of her boots flying what seemed the length of the block. She was gone for a moment. There was a hush, almost a moment of silence from the frenzied crowd. Then girls screaming. Boys screaming, and that was a strange sound you never heard on a baseball diamond or a soccer pitch.
His face was angled so that he took in, nearly saw, the blurred fishtailing of a dark automobile driven on, and on and off, the sidewalk at the speed of a night’s winter light in snow. So fast, everyone said. Incredibly fast. One thing he was sure he saw: a very fat young woman in a ski jacket had made a move—maybe thinking to block the car—and then stopped like a cartoon creature arresting itself in midair and effecting a headlong dive away from the car’s path, or what had been the car’s path a fraction of a second before.
Maud landed partly against two brownstone steps and partly against the spear tips of the railing that guarded a house three doors down. The sound had the quality of a shattering and an element like brass resonating, a ring in it, a strange gong and a crack. Brass on bone, and blood, and screaming that echoed in the street. He was holding a mitten. Of all things he would think: A mitten, how utterly un-Maud-like a thing a mitten was.
Someone struck him hard and Ellie ran past him. She was running toward the bloodied child-figure that lay, wrapped tightly in bloody blue plastic, on the sidewalk.
17
JO WAS TRYING TO KEEP children’s voices from ascending through the cloud cover that eternally shadowed the rain forest. It seemed impossible. She had forgotten all the sorcery of the place. To gather up the silver voices was like trying to gather the tiny fish at the edge of the river when your fingers would not close, like trying to gather tree and bird spirits in your mind. The effort made her whimper in her sleep. The glittering voices were above her as she rose out over the jungle’s brown cloud and saw that they were drawing her to the base of the cliffs. She had always felt a thrill of fear encountering the cliffs on a trail.
The gorges loomed high and deep beyond measuring. Their rainbowed waterfalls and vast green shadows stifled effort or your pleas, reduced them to birdcalls. Never yielding, the gorges had the eagle’s mercy, crushed and ripped your tiny beating heart. Voices drew her, and when they came against the rock they never broke but were changed and became a living cloud of harmonies, so sweet, so delicate, but so terribly queer, so alien. The cloud of voices then drew her up, not gently—violently, as in a fall, stopping breath again, up into canyons, past the last of thick-fleshed leaves and over the wall. The fear of it!
And there to her horror were the black lava meadows and the cruel blue sky and the thin clouds on the edge of the world. The disk of the sun, having risen to light silver fountains in the canyons below, to command a blazing moon, was disappearing now. The enormous thing the voices had become raced to the blackness overhead and the flash of the stars.
She thought it woke her but it was still the past, always the past. He was there. Around him only for a moment stood a ring of bronze children whose wary gemstone eyes were fixed on him. They sang to him and then were gone. She knew she was in her room and he was there. He sat on the edge of her bed and spoke to her in a mixture of Spanish, the languages of the montaña, luscious Portuguese, Papiamentu.
“What do you want?”
“To mourn.”
Finally awake, she thought. But when she looked across the room she thought she could see him in the darkness. His face was drawn and bearded, as in the conventions of cheap religious art. His eyes seemed teary and dull but wetly reflected a wall lamp near the door.
“I’m the Mourner. I hear the silent screams.”
El Doliente.
Her first and only experience of him had come at the beginning of her time in the montaña, when she was still in a state of revolutionary exaltation. By now she had come to understand the situation well enough to be very frightened of him.
“Call me Father Walter,” he had used to say. He had been the pastor of a Devotionist missionary parish in a province under siege by the True Revolution. Little by little he had gone over to them. Nor was it out of fear, although there would have been reason for that. For a while, during his moderate-radical phase, some in the English-speaking press, usually in North America, referred to him as the People’s Padre. Father Walter had found that description congenial.
She remembered that he was once obsessed with sacrifices, blood on the thorns, the power of the Infant of Prague, El Niño himself. The Milky Way. No one could expound on the ideology of the True Revolution more effectively. Even those who failed to comprehend dreaded him. “Let them,” he said, “w
ho are afraid of me be afraid for themselves.” The People’s Padre. Now El Doliente, the Mourner, who heard the silent screams.
Her own trembling truly woke her. She cursed and went to turn on the bathroom light and wash away her tears. In the mirror her youthful face. In the waking world outside she heard sirens not far away. By now they were to her an almost reassuring sound.
18
ON A MILD DECEMBER DAY—so soft that on his rounds he thought he could smell new grass and budding trees in the park—Eddie Stack had just returned from his walk when a New York police captain came to his door. The sight of the senior man frightened Stack for a minute. He was no more at ease when the officer took his cap off.
“Mr. Stack?”
Stack’s daughter was dead, the victim of a nighttime hit-and-run driver right off her college campus. Stack heard himself ask the officer in, but the captain declined. Hit-and-run driver at night. There would be information and assistance. The captain gave him a folder with advice and instructions, a police chaplain’s card clipped to it, and said something about Mrs. Stack and prayers and it being personal to everyone in the job.
When the captain was gone, Stack walked to an armchair with his blood roaring in his ears. His legs were failing under him. He realized that things, his life and identity, had become more different than he had thought the wildest compass of possibility could have afforded.
At first Stack could not believe it. Then, although he knew perfectly well what he had been told in the captain’s soft professional tone, he kept thinking that the thing announced had been his own death. He had absorbed his wife’s death by feeling that it had transported him into a kind of post-life of his own in which he was as close to her as to any of the living. Dying was frequently on his mind. He had the city’s health care benefits but as a rule he did not go to doctors. Stack simply assumed that his emphysema and the damage he had done to himself by years of alcoholism were bills about to come due. It might be slightly premature—he was under seventy—but where he came from it was considered respectable in men. Now he tried to tell himself that he had been given notice. But Maud had no connection in his mind with death at all; her problems came from her insistent pursuit of living. Of the more abundant life her intelligence, her beauty and diligence, her courage, could win for her. During one of their constant arguments in past years she shouted at him:
“I have to live more of a life! I have to live inside a bigger circle than you and Mom did.”
Trying to understand what he had been told, Stack was presented with a puzzle. Going off to the college, she had stepped out to the big circle. They rarely spoke after she moved up to Amesbury. When she came home to visit, she talked down to him. He beset her with cautions that he himself knew were clichés. So in that sense she was gone, lost to him. The other side of this was that she was a living part of him, someone who was so much of his mind and body that he could no more lose her and live than he could lose his heart.
In the gathering shock he felt his arms go numb. “My arms,” he said aloud. When he sat down, the sensation went away but, holding his forearms in front of his eyes, it was impossible for him not to imagine his way back to the nights when his wife was working and Maud was a baby and he had carried her back and forth against his shoulder in the same room where he now sat, more or less dying. He would not let her do it, he thought. He stood up to run away, lurched back and forth in the room, swinging at phantoms, throwing elbow punches to free his arms of her. That was no good—it just brought back the memories and took his breath away and there was nowhere on planet Earth to run.
After the captain’s visit, in terror of grief, to save his life, to humiliate himself, to undo time and death, to make a fool of himself unworthy of burning, he went out and bought a bottle to replace the one Maud had stolen. He thought he could catch fire more slowly with the whiskey but it made him violently sick in the downstairs bathroom. Then he drank more of it and was better.
Prompted by the whiskey, he fled up the stairs and stood for a few minutes at the door of Maud’s room. Finally he could not enter, so he went to his own room and removed his Glock from a locked drawer and put in the clip. How stupid, he thought, to keep a weapon in your house unloaded. However, he knew why it was unloaded and not ready to hand as it should have been. He took the Glock downstairs with him. He had forgotten to go slowly on the stairs. Panting, he sat down again and poured more liquor. It was a waste, eight years of sobriety, but there was no way to put the stuff back in the bottle.
He stared at it, at the label. Jameson, the Catholic whiskey, as opposed to Bushmills, the Protestant. Some indeterminate rage had come over him, preferable to the pain. It was them, Catholics. Us. No, he thought. Them. They—them—had been many things over his lifetime—lawyers, perpetrators, judges, anyone they called mokes, civilians, the public in general, anyone who was not in the job. They had come to include just about the whole world now—the people who wrote the newspapers, the people you read about in the newspapers, the people who wrote letters to newspapers, the readers of newspapers. And television and its hypnotized witnesses. He had warned her about them and what would happen with the article. He had warned her they would hurt her. And she had become one of a different department of them, an anti-them, same thing, he thought, nutso fucks. He had tried to save her. But he himself was one of them because he was a drunk, a red-nosed clown, a fool.
And his own parents. And their parents. Them. His teetotaler bartender father with the holy pledge to Matt Talbot, and his mother with her scented novena cards. Them. We ourselves. Too long sacrifice, yes. And we, they, quite probably, had destroyed Maud, the very people who begat the people who begat her. Finished ourselves off, our family, finished my rash young daughter and me. Too long sacrifice, to be sure. Burned our own house as always, in the name of ghosts.
God, he thought, she was right about all the pussy-faced bishops and slobbering priests. Maud had been right. She might just have broken our spell. He took out the gun’s clip, looked at it and snapped it back in. Though it continue the cycle.
He woke, sick and breathless, the next afternoon feeling that grief, rage, alcohol and insomnia were likely to make short work of him, and soon. Then he thought with true terror of the grief that awaited him, the years of it he would have to endure. A grief that sooner or later would infest his heart and burn him down. All his love turned to scarring, a craze. Her childhood blotted out.
Downstairs, he drank ice water from the refrigerator until it eased his thirst and somehow steadied his heart. He still had the Glock semi-automatic he ought not to be in possession of. He had always thought of using a weapon against himself if the worst came. It would be nothing but shameful panic to turn it on himself so. He had seen, he thought, enough of that. It also occurred to him that it would be wrong to make so sudden and violent an end of Maud’s memory, leaving no truly loving trace of her within the length of a day—girl gone, mother, father gone. It was not right. As to religious scruples, he had none. He drank more water and then had another swallow of the whiskey.
But as he had learned before, there were things to be done, and one of them was to call the members of his family. The best person he could think of to handle it was his older sister Gerry, who had done it before. Gerry lived in Florida and passed the time there hating her wealthy ex-husband.
“Don’t cry on me,” he told her at first. He needed a tough cookie to pass the word.
He also called a former police surgeon named Sorkin, a friend of a friend, who would not give him barbiturates but called in a prescription for Ambien. The Ambien worked well enough for him to handle a call the next day from Gerry’s despised ex, Charlie Kinsella, a dapper and much-feared former policeman. Stack feared Charlie as much as anyone and was not pleased to hear that Kinsella promised to drop by later in the day.
“Aw, God, Eddie,” Charlie said when he came. He took Stack in his arms, affording him a whiff of his cologne. “I’m so sorry.”
Charlie had hi
s hair cut in a place that actors went to. He looked like an actor who might play an Irish cop on television and in fact had provided filmmakers with constabulary advice until even the most rash and reckless of the aspiring moguls had become afraid of him. Stack watched his former brother-in-law enter his living room with princely condescension. Stack thought he might actually be waiting to be shown a seat.
“Have a seat, Charlie.”
Kinsella took off his overcoat in a way Stack thought showed every facet of the Harris weave. He had no idea what such an overcoat might cost. A thousand dollars? Five thousand dollars? More? The dark suit he wore was most impressive.
Charlie Kinsella took Stack’s best chair, carefully removing the past week’s newspapers from it, including a copy of the Gazette. He rested his resplendent overcoat over an adjoining rocking chair, leaving the sofa to Stack, and looked around the room.
“No pictures of Barbara?” He spread his hands, almost smiling, seeming really to require an answer.
“No pictures.”
“I put them up myself, pictures of the departed. I’m not afraid of living in the past.”
I must show nothing to him, Stack thought. Not a wariness of the eye nor a flicker of tongue to lips. Nor the rage he felt at the sound of his dead wife’s name on the thin lips of this man who could dazzle her with a glance, before whom she blushed and melted from shame. Who can freeze me with undifferentiated fear in the throes of my grief when I care nothing whatever for living.
Stack thought he knew where the coat and the cloth of his suit had come from. From an expensive tailor’s shop he was reasonably certain could not be far from Ground Zero on the flame-lit night of the day in question.
“Yez should keep a picture of Maudie.”
“I don’t think so, Charlie. Wouldn’t put one up for a while, I believe.”
