Amnesia Moon

by Jonathan Lethem

  “Don’t tell me you’re leaving her here, you crumb.”

  “No,” he said. “We’ll take her.”

  “And Ray and Dave, right?”

  He nodded.

  By the time they got back, night had fallen. Ray and Dave were in front of the television. Edie was there too. They all looked up and watched as he rumbled into the apartment, but nobody said anything.

  He slumped, defeated, into an armchair. Edie went quietly into the kitchen and came back with a beer for him, and he drank it and stewed in his thoughts while the others all watched television.

  He waited for the evening to end, for the boys to be put to bed. It seemed to take forever. No one spoke. They crept around him in his chair like an obstacle. It made him think of Vance’s description of the tumors that grew inside the houses in Los Angeles.

  Finally Ray and Dave were asleep, and Melinda was in her room. Edie nodded to him, still not breaking the silence, and indicated the bedroom. He followed her inside, and she closed the door. She climbed up on the bed and sat on one of the pillows.

  “Here.” She patted the pillow beside her with a tiny hand. “Will you come sit down?”

  He went and sprawled on the bed glumly, keeping his distance. For their bodies to touch now would be even more absurd. But apparently she didn’t think so, because she reached for his hand. However disparate their sizes, at least he was her equal now in ugliness. But he would have to get over all that, it seemed. Caring about size and ugliness.

  “I’m sorry I freaked out, Chaos. It was a shock to have you come back.”

  “It’s okay. I just . . . I don’t know what to do. I came here because of you.”

  “That’s okay,” she said softly.

  “But everything seems screwed up. I don’t think I can stay here, in Vacaville. I want to take you somewhere else.”

  “Where?” She looked frightened again.

  “I don’t know. But this is no good.”

  “You always talk like that, and I never know what you mean.”

  “Edie,” he started, then stopped and began again. “Edie, you would understand if you went away. The way it is here, the way they have it, you can’t think clearly about things. But you’d understand if you got out. Will you trust me?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you—want to be with me? I mean, instead of with Ian?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. I don’t want to be with Ian.” He felt her hand trembling in his.

  “What?”

  “There’s something I didn’t tell you. When I’m with Ian . . . I don’t know how he does this, but my body changes. I’m not small anymore. I’m different, beautiful. Only while we’re . . . together. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  A tear crossed her cheek. “I don’t understand what it is. But it made me—want to do it. To experience that. I hated him, but at the same time—”

  “You don’t have to explain.”

  She sniffled.

  “Going away will mean that Ray and Dave won’t see their father anymore,” he said.

  “Gerald isn’t much of a father,” she said. “He might not even notice. The boys would be sorrier to lose Melinda.” She curled up against him.

  “We should go right away,” he said. “This place—it could make me forget who I am. And Ian, he’ll just start pressuring me to take that test. I think he knows about my dreaming.”

  “Okay,” she said. “We’ll go tomorrow. Let’s sleep now.” She tucked herself up against him like a small animal. He put his arm over her and pulled her closer, until he could feel her heartbeat thrum against his soft side.

  But he didn’t let himself sleep. There was a chance that Ilford or Harriman would be looking for him, tracing him by his dreams. He ached to sleep; he’d been running for days, it seemed, and his new bulk drew him earthward. But he couldn’t risk it, not until he was out of range, farther away.

  Besides, he was sick of the dreaming. Of any dreaming, but especially his own. He didn’t want to invade Edie’s thoughts, or Melinda’s, didn’t want to alert Cooley to his new plans, didn’t want to know how his dreams would interface with those of the dreamers who ran Vacaville.

  Edie fell soundly asleep. A few minutes later Melinda crept into the room and up onto the bed beside him.

  “What?” he said.

  “I got scared,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “We’re going in the morning,” he said.

  “Good.” She curled up on his other side, and the two of them slept there, tiny bodies against his mass, Edie even smaller than Melinda. There was certainly enough of him to go around.

  He’d fought sleep many times before, avoiding Kellogg’s dreams, but it never hurt like this, now that it was his own dreams he was avoiding, now that it mattered so much. He was tired to his core. Before long he was hallucinating, sleeping awake, and he wondered if that might not be just as bad as dreaming.

  His head rolling forward, his eyes glazing, he suddenly thought, I’m as fat as Kellogg. Fatter. It was like destiny. He would be the new Kellogg. He shuddered at the thought. The horrifying prospect.

  It was impossible, staying awake there under the warm bodies. He moved Melinda and Edie away from him, covered them with the blankets, and shifted his bulk out of bed. He went outside and found some cardboard boxes heaped up in the garage, took the cleanest ones and brought them inside. Careful to be quiet, he went into the kitchen and began loading supplies into the boxes: food, utensils, and pans. He began sweating immediately, and was amazed by the sensation of the sweat coursing along his new contours. He was like a world. After he filled the boxes, he moved them to the trunk of Edie’s car. Packing the rest would be easy; Edie was accustomed to moving, her belongings already packed out of habit.

  Finally he switched on the television, the sound low, and watched a few hours of reruns. When the sun finally came up, he went back into the bedroom and woke Edie.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and nodded.

  Everything took longer than he wanted. Roly-poly Ray was hopeless, and Dave almost as ineffectual. Still, an hour later they were nearly ready. Everett left Edie in the apartment and took Melinda down the street and around the corner, to a house where the family car was parked out of view of the front windows. Everyone was still asleep anyway. He’d found an empty gas can and a hose in the junk of the garage.

  She saw what he wanted. “We should switch to one of those solar cars,” she said.

  “I don’t know how soon we’ll find one. I want to go up north from here. Edie’s car is pretty low.”

  Melinda went to work, and soon the can was full. When Everett hauled it back around the corner, Cooley was just pulling up in his car. Edie was out of sight, probably in the house. Cooley shut off his engine, got out.

  A crowd of neighbors had formed. In their bathrobes, with uncombed hair, all of them wrong sizes and shapes and colors, with goiters and harelips and missing limbs and extra limbs. Several had summons books ready. Everett wondered if Cooley had made a round of phone calls, or gone knocking on doors, to ensure the audience.

  “Welcome back, Chaos,” said Cooley. “What’s happening here? It’s not moving day.”

  Cooley, who’d struck Everett as oddly broad and thick the first time he saw him, now looked more normal than anyone there. The Vacaville dreamers had succeeded. Cooley was intimidatingly gorgeous, almost heroic. Everett, ignoring him, pulled the gas can over to the side of Edie’s car.

  “Need some help with that? You look like you’re about to have a stroke.”

  “Fuck you,” said Everett.

  The crowd oohed.

  “Wait, let me guess,” said Cooley. “You’re angry with me.” He radiated ease.

  “Melinda, go inside. Cooley, say what you have to say and then leave us alone.”

  “You’re all business, fat man.” Laugh
ter. The people surrounding them responded to Cooley like a studio audience. Or maybe just a canned laugh track.

  “That’s right,” Everett said.

  “Well, why not slow down? You look like you could use a rest. And you should take a closer look at what you’re doing.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Everett said, and felt he’d never spoken truer words. Leaving and taking with him the people that he cared about, that’s what he was doing. As he should have taken Gwen and Cale with him out of San Francisco, so long ago. He’d come close then. Chaos had come closer, oddly enough, sweeping Melinda out of Hatfork. But now Everett was going to get it right. He resolutely packed the car.

  “Edie’s luck is no good,” said Cooley. “Neither is yours. Have you taken a good look at yourself?”

  “What’s standing in my way now isn’t luck, Cooley. This has nothing to do with luck.”

  “You’re headed down, friend. You’ve lost control of your life. You’re going to hitch yourself to a woman and her two kids when you can’t even take care of yourself. You take them out of this town, and they’ll be helpless, completely dependent on you. All Edie knows is here. You’ve got your whole dream thing to cope with, which you can’t, basically, and your luck stinks. Plus you’re carrying a little weight there.”

  “You want to talk about luck?” said Everett. “I’ve got luck. The proof is, I met Edie. That was the luckiest day of my life.”

  He regretted the words instantly. He was letting himself be drawn into the conversation, getting defensive.

  “That’s sweet,” said Cooley. The crowd behind him tittered. “Does she feel the same way about you? How about the day you left?”

  That was enough to reactivate his anger. “Thanks for the warning,” he said. “If that’s all—”

  “It’s not all. You think I came here to see you?” He smirked. “I’m here to see Edie.”

  “Too bad.” Everett picked up the gas can, and let a little splash onto the pavement between his feet and Cooley’s. Someone shrieked. A man with a goiter and a bald woman raced to scribble out tickets.

  “Don’t you need that gas for your escape, big boy?” said Cooley. It was meant to be challenging, but halfway through it he met Everett’s eyes, and his voice faltered.

  “Don’t provoke me,” Everett said. “I’m tired and I’m upset. I could do anything, you know. I’m all broke up inside about my luck.”

  “Very funny,” said Cooley. “But you’re covering your weakness. You know you’re in deep shit.”

  “No, I’m serious. You’re the one in deep shit.” He stared into Cooley’s eyes. “I’m tired, like I said, and desperate. Yesterday in San Francisco I tore a house apart. You know what they say, don’t you? Never fight a guy who’s uglier than you, he’s got nothing to lose.”

  “So put that gas down,” said Cooley cautiously. “I like my odds.”

  “No thanks. I just can’t spare the time.” He swung the can forward and splashed gas over Cooley’s pant cuffs and shoes. Cooley jumped back, too late. Everett took the can and went around to the driver’s door. “I think this car has a lighter. I’d go, Cooley. Right away. Unless you want to look like you belong in this town. Do they make a version of Playboy for guys with no feet?”

  Cooley stood, stunned. “You’re dead. Chaos.”

  “Probably, if I stay here, you’re right. But that’s normal for this place. You’re all dead already.” He pulled out the lighter, which wasn’t actually hot. It didn’t matter. The sight of it sent Cooley running for his car. The chemicals in the gas were probably burning his ankles already, even unlit.

  The man with the goiter braved stepping up to Everett with a summons. He was that eager, apparently, to meet his quota. He even smiled as he held out the fluttering ticket.

  Everett grabbed it, and the man jumped back into the safety of the crowd. “You got the wrong guy,” Everett said. “You must not have heard about the new law. Failure to live up to comic book hero standards. Cooley here is in violation.” He took the ticket and followed Cooley to his car.

  “What are you staring at?” he shouted at the crowd. “Write him some tickets.” Cooley slammed his door shut and picked up the phone in his car. Everett slopped some more gas on the outside of Cooley’s door, then stopped. He did need the gas. He stuffed the summons under Cooley’s windshield.

  Cooley started his car.

  “There’s your government star,” Everett said. The crowd murmured and backed away. “He had to make the whole town ugly just so he could get laid.” Everett took the gas back to his car. “You people ought to stuff your tickets up his goddamn beautiful ass. But you never will—”

  He let it go. It wasn’t their fault.

  Cooley drove away. Everett got into Edie’s car and sank down in the driver’s seat. He replaced the lighter. He was exhausted but he wasn’t trembling anymore. It was as though his fat had dissipated his anger, as though he was big enough now to absorb such feelings.

  The neighbors watched dumbly as Cooley drove off, and stared at Everett in the car, and at Melinda, who was standing in the doorway.

  Everett got out and waved his arms. “Go home,” he said. “I don’t have any replacement heroes for you. I’m just a fat slob getting out of town.” As the crowd slowly dispersed, he poured the rest of the gas into the tank, then went inside and found Edie. She was packing silverware into a cigar box.

  “Forget it,” he said. “We’ll take what’s in the car. It’s time to go.”

  Edie didn’t argue. Melinda had obviously told her about Cooley’s arrival.

  It took five minutes to get everyone into the car, five minutes that felt like an hour. But they were near the edge of town, and they got out without being followed. Everett pushed the car up to seventy-five once they hit the highway; the overloaded station wagon complained, but he ignored it. After the first hour he eased down to sixty.

  Edie helped him navigate. The map she unfolded was as big as she was. Dave had to sit sideways to accommodate his tail. For the moment they just headed north. Everett had the idea they might find the house he’d left behind, the one near the lake.

  They stopped so everybody could pee behind some bushes, but ate lunch in the car. Ray and Dave were too hypnotized by the road to complain or fight. Everett knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long, but after the first day it wouldn’t matter so much if they stopped.

  At nightfall he pulled off the highway in the middle of nowhere, onto a dirt road that led them up a hill and into some trees. He let Edie take care of giving out food. He wasn’t hungry. He was dimly aware that his gruffness wasn’t winning him any friends, but it didn’t matter. There would be plenty of time for diplomacy later. Now he had to sleep. He went around to the back and cleared a space for himself by unloading their belongings onto the ground behind the car. Then he climbed up and curled his huge body into that space, filling it, and fell quickly and soundly asleep.

  He approached the maze from the sky.

  He was fat, like Kellogg. Like himself, he realized. But aloft, a blimp, an air-whale. He took his time gliding down into the corridors of the maze, and landed so gently that his feet barely stirred the dust.

  He was alone where he landed, but he saw the arrows painted on the walls and followed them until he found the man lost there. It wasn’t the man who had been there before. It was Ilford.

  Eyes closed, his withered body held erect by the wheelchair, and snoring quietly. Around him was a litter of discarded cans and sun-bleached, rain-warped magazines.

  I brought him here, Everett thought. I made good on my threat.

  Nonetheless Everett stood paralyzed and silent under the pounding midday sun and stared at the man in the chair. Afraid to wake him.

  Then he heard a creak and a grinding of gears behind him, around a corner of the maze. He turned.

  The televangelist scuffled into view, shreds of rubber soles dragging in the dust, pamphlets spilling onto the ground. It was Cale’s face that appear
ed on the screen.

  The robot ignored Everett and approached the man in the wheelchair.

  Everett cried out, “Cale!”

  It didn’t seem to hear. It moved behind the chair and took the handles in its corroded fingers, then tilted the chair and rolled it forward. Ilford slept on, unharmed, oblivious.

  The robot pushed the wheelchair out of the fork in the maze where Everett stood and around a corner. Its manner, unmistakably, caring. Protective.

  It occurred to Everett that the robot was protecting Ilford from him.

  Now, as though something had been decided, his blimplike body rose back up out of the maze and into the glare of the sky. From above he could see the televangelist pushing the wheelchair, patiently working its way through the labyrinth.

  Hovering, Everett saw another wanderer in the maze. He changed course, sailed away from the televangelist and towards the second man. Drifted down, and landed inside the walls.

  The second lost man was Cooley.

  Again Everett stood unseen, a bloated ghost in the corridor. Cooley had the jacket of his suit over his arm and his collar open, but he was still sweating. He turned down one path, then stopped, frowned, and stalked back to the fork. He looked up and peered intently past Everett, evidently not noticing him, instead evaluating the maze for a route of escape.

  “Cooley,” said Everett.

  “He can’t hear you,” came a voice behind Everett.

  He turned and saw Kellogg. The big man waddled around a corner and stood grinning.

  As Kellogg had predicted, Cooley didn’t respond. He wandered off, nervously peeking around corners, trying to find an exit. In a minute he was out of sight, leaving Kellogg and Everett alone.

  “Well, pilgrim,” said Kellogg. He took the cigar out of his mouth. “Looks like you’re still a little ambivalent about gravity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kellogg stepped up and poked him in the stomach. His finger passed through Everett’s ghostly form. “Size but no weight,” he said. “Bad recipe.”

  “They couldn’t see me.”