One December afternoon Mr. Haden came home with a fuzzy white polar bear under his arm. Around the animal’s neck was a cardboard collar with BOB written on it in thick black letters. Thin Mrs. Haden stood in the doorway blocking the way until her husband had satisfactorily explained what he was carrying. He said it was a stuffed animal, a polar bear, which he thought was an ideal Christmas present for little Simon. Plus he had bought it for a very good price.
“How much?” Mrs. Haden asked as she strangled the hand towel she was holding.
“Eleven dollars down at the Shell station.”
She didn’t know if she was more impressed by the price, or the fact her normally unobservant husband had found their son’s Christmas present at a gasoline station.
It was lub at first site. The little boy walked into the living room Christmas morning and saw the tree first but that made no impression on him. A tree inside the house, strung with popcorn: Who cares? Then he saw the white bear sitting on the chair next to the tree. Simon waddled over to that chair and simply stood there, captivated by this white apparition, this wonderful creature out of the blue sitting there in his house. It seemed as if it had been waiting all along for the boy.
“Hello.”
The bear didn’t answer but that was okay. Simon didn’t know what to expect from the animal but so long as it stayed where it was and didn’t leave, the child was content with its silence.
“I lub you.”
Even flint-hearted Mrs. Haden melted on hearing her son say that to his new toy. Standing next to her husband, she took his hand in hers and squeezed it. A few minutes later while Simon was still getting acquainted with Bob, Mr. Haden put on a record. The room filled with B.J. Thomas singing the Hadens’ favorite song, “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.”
For the next nine years, that was the theme song of Simon and Bob the Bear. Sometimes when he was dreamy or scared or just happy, the boy would wrap his arms around the bear and sing the song to his most steadfast friend. He told Bob his secrets, his fears, his hatreds, and what he considered most important in the small world of Simon Haden. He told the stuffed animal about his friend Clifford Snatzke, a new very pretty girl in third grade, and tearily about being beaten up again and again in fifth grade by the class bully. Even when he was much too old to own a stuffed animal he kept Bob, although he relegated it now to a corner, where it lived sort of incommunicado until it literally came apart at its cheap seams. Over those years the bear served as friend, confidante, confessor, talisman, imagined protector, and finally as pillow. Always uncomplaining, always there to do whatever he could to make Simon Haden feel that there was at least one being in his world who could be counted on for everything.
A long time later in another world, Bob the Bear gently disengaged itself from Haden’s embrace and stepped back to look at its old roommate.
Haden didn’t resist. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he let himself be examined from head to toe by the bear. While this happened, something dawned on him.
“Bob? They said I was coming here to see God.” He quickly looked around to make sure God wasn’t in the room with them.
“Mmh,” Bob said, not yet having finished its examination. Needless to say, that response wasn’t much help.
“But what—”
The bear held up a paw for Haden to be quiet while he was being appraised. When it was finished, the animal nodded to itself as if it had now correlated the data it needed on this man.
“I was your god, Simon. I was the only god you ever really believed in your whole life. Think about it: Who else in your life did you ever love so much? Who else did you trust with all your heart, confess to with complete confidence, or turn to for help in bad situations? Me.
“Your parents were weirdos; all of the women you had gave you some joy here and there, but never enough to make your heart peaceful. And you would never have dreamed of telling your men friends your secrets. Think about all of that and then you do the math.”
Bob had exactly the kind of voice Haden had imagined when he had “conversations” with the bear years ago. Deep and sweet, it was a friendly voice that put its arm around your shoulder and pulled you in close. Tell me everything, it said. You can trust me. And little Simon Haden had trusted his stuffed bear in every possible way. Looking at it now, although the version in front of him was much larger than the original, a thousand childhood memories leapt across Haden’s mind. He quickly realized that the animal was right: Bob the Bear had been his god. It had possessed every wonderful quality that we attribute to a benevolent deity, and then some. Best of all, it was a god that had always been right there for the boy, always a glance or an arm’s length away, ready to be relied on, ready to be held, ready to be turned to when thunder, or his parents’ loud arguing voices, or the monsters lurking under the bed threatened him. When any of these things attacked his world and sent little Simon Haden running for any kind of safety he could find, Bob was always there. Thank God for Bob. Thank God for God.
“I’ve gotta say, Simon, you don’t look so good.”
“Well maybe that’s because I’m dead, Bob.”
“No, it’s not that.” The bear walked in a large slow circle around the man. “Tired, that’s what it is—you look tired. How come?”
Haden tipped one shoulder. “I don’t sleep so well here.”
“Is that right? Why’s that?”
Haden slid his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “I don’t know. Look, could you please tell me what I’m doing here? This whole thing makes me incredibly uptight, not knowing a thing. I think I’d feel a whole lot better if I knew what it was about.”
“Isabelle Neukor.”
Haden jerked to attention. “Who?”
“Your Isabelle. Don’t play dumb now.”
“Isabelle.” Haden said the name like it was new to his tongue, like just saying it made everything a little bit better. “What about her?”
“She’s in trouble and you’ve got to help her. That’s why I’m here. That’s why we’re talking.”
Haden now felt a tug of relief in one direction, alarm in another. This wasn’t about him. It wasn’t his fault, as had usually been the case throughout his life. But it was about Isabelle. She was in trouble. As a dead man what could he do for her?
“I’m dead—what can I do for her?”
“She’s here, in your world, Simon. You’ve got to find her.”
Haden’s heart wrenched. “She’s here? She died? Isabelle died?”
Bob shook its big white head. “No, she’s still alive. But Chaos keeps bringing her here and now it thinks it has found a way of making her stay.”
“I don’t understand this. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Okay. Sit down, Simon.” Haden gestured that there was no chair for him to sit on. Bob pointed to the one behind the desk. “Sit there—take mine.”
Haden sat and Bob began. “I was sent here because this thing is a lot larger than you could grasp. It was thought that if it were explained to you by someone familiar—”
“Bob, I’m confused enough already. Just give me the facts.”
“Okay, fair enough. Did you know that Isabelle is pregnant?”
Simon Haden died a little bit again then. No, he did not know Isabelle was pregnant. Nor was it news he wanted to ever hear, whether he was alive or dead. Not only had he lost Isabelle in life, but now as a dead man he learned that someone else had won her, hands-down, finito-basta, totally. Enough so that she was having his baby. Haden hated the thought. At that moment he hated it about as much as he hated being dead.
“No, I didn’t know that. Who’s child—Vincent Ettrich?”
“Yes, but there’s much more to it than that.” Bob continued talking but Haden tuned it out. Torturing himself, he pictured Isabelle and Ettrich rolling around everywhere—in a bed, in a car, on the ground, standing up… He tore himself apart fantasizing about Isabelle fucking, being fucked, moaning, moving, lovi
ng it, loving the person she had her beautiful long legs and heart wrapped around. Vincent Ettrich, that son of a bitch.
Another reason why this image tormented Haden was knowing that Ettrich had been as much of a shameless cocksman as he. Isabelle Neukor hadn’t given her heart to some virtuous Galahad who kneeled before her altar and had never entertained a dirty thought in his life. Oh no, she was in love with Vincent Ettrich, who’d had more ass than a toilet seat.
“Simon, you’re not listening to me.”
Looking blankly at his oldest friend, Haden forgot where he was for a moment. When he remembered he felt like the naughty student caught dozing by the teacher in the middle of a lesson.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Bob. Please excuse me. What were you saying?”
Caustically, the polar bear asked, “Do you want to know the secret of the universe?”
Haden heard the question and it did register in him somewhere, but in a distant unused room way on the other side of his mental house.
“What? What did you say?”
“I asked if you want to know the secret of the universe.”
“No!” Simon Haden answered immediately.
Bob was surprised. “Why not?”
Haden held up a hand traffic cop–style to stop any further discussion of the topic. “What would I do with it? Huh? Sell it on eBay? Look, I’m confused enough in this place learning the basics, Bob. You know what I mean? Addition and subtraction—I don’t know how to add two and two together. I don’t even know what that is here. Broximon and the others keep showing me things and obviously they’re as simple as pie to them, but not to me. No sir—I go home and stare at the wall, trying to put it all into focus and get some kind of big picture. But you know what? The only conclusion I ever come to is Huh? I—don’t-understand. Basically nothing. Do you understand how depressing that is? Do you have any idea of how stupid it makes you feel?
“So thanks but no thanks, Bob. You can keep the secret of the universe. I’m confused enough as it is.” Haden rubbed his mouth hard and then in frustration, slid his hand up over his face to the top of his head and rubbed it furiously, as if putting out a little fire up there.
The bear watched all this with calm equanimity. When Haden was done, it said, “Too bad. You’ve got to know it so that you can save Isabelle.” And with a small wave of its paw, Bob showed Haden the secret of the universe.
It took about the same amount of time as a hummingbird needs to flap its wings once. The secret of the universe is not a large thing nor is it particularly complex. That’s man’s problem—he keeps thinking it is and consequently looks for it in all the wrong places.
Haden emerged from his new knowledge the way a deep-earth miner emerges from the elevator that has lifted him back up to the surface: blinking against the bright sunlight, slightly dizzy, straining to find his correct mental and physical gravity. Because where he has just come from bears no resemblance to where he is now. It is both disorienting and breathtaking at the same time.
What Haden did not know was that what Bob had just done to him broke the most important rule of the afterlife. Literally, it had never been done before. Everything after death was intended to be deduced or discovered, deciphered, decoded or deconstructed by the individuals themselves. No being was ever to be taught the secrets of death by others. Rule number one. That’s the way it had always been—until now.
Haden finally “saw” Bob and said without thinking, “Karya buryamp.”
Bob nodded and answered, “Skeena haloop.”
“Clapunda la me.”
The polar bear heaved a sigh and commiserated, “Gorpop.”
“Let’s speak English, Bob. I’m not used to those other words yet.”
“Whatever you like.”
“How am I going to do this? Where am I supposed to start?”
For the first time since their conversation began, the bear hesitated and looked away. Haden noticed and didn’t like it. Knowing the secret of the universe had made him a little more sensitive to the moment. “What?”
The animal still wouldn’t look at him. “Nothing.”
“What, Bob? Eye contact, please. You’re not looking at me. Yes, I noticed.”
“Chaos wants to keep Isabelle here. That’s why it keeps bringing her: it wants her to give birth to the baby here. If that happens, neither of them will ever be able to return to their world.”
Because he was an irredeemably selfish person, despite knowing the secret of the universe, Haden didn’t mind that idea; no, not at all. Granted, the child wasn’t his, but the notion of having Isabelle around (and another chance at her) brought his thoughts to happy attention.
“That can’t happen, Simon. Her child has to be born there and live its life there.”
“Why?”
The polar bear roared. Not like a cuddly, pillow-talking polar bear might, but a full-throated, shit-your-pants/run-for-your-life wild animal roar. It was huge and deafening and froze Haden down to his cells.
“Stop thinking alive, Simon. Think dead, because alive is finished for you. You live some place else now. And here there are vastly more important matters to concern yourself with.
“No more pussy, Simon. Get it? No more double vodkas at the bar with a wide-screen TV and complimentary pretzels. Time’s up, you stupid motherfucker.”
“What—” Haden could barely squeak out that one small word. Fear had him by the throat and rightly so: the bear looked like it was on the brink of killing him, or worse. It was close enough to snatch him up in one enormous white paw and crunch him like a piece of lettuce. “What do you want me to do, Bob? I’ll do anything.”
“You have to go to Ropenfeld.”
“I won’t do it,” Haden said without hesitation.
The bear roared again, even more furiously this time. But Simon Haden didn’t even blink.
“No Ropenfeld. No way, no day,” he said decisively. There was no give in his voice. Polar bear or no polar bear, this was a closed issue.
Seeing that he meant it, Bob decided to cool the roars and try a little diplomacy instead. “Isabelle is in Ropenfeld, Simon. That’s where they keep taking her, although she hasn’t met any of your nightmares there yet.”
Just the thought of Ropenfeld sent a cold lizard scurrying up Haden’s spine. Looking at Bob, he vividly remembered the night years and years ago that he dreamt, or rather nightmared, that he was being made to tear the bear apart and feed the pieces to his hateful little sister. Gouts of ropy blood spouted from the pieces as he pulled them off one by one. Blood ran down the corners of his sister’s mouth as she happily, greedily devoured each and every scrap of Simon’s adored stuffed animal. Even the eyes. All this happened in Ropenfeld. Dreams like that always took place in Ropenfeld.
It began when Haden was a child. His father’s boss was named Ropenfeld. A man and thus a name despised in the Haden family for as long as Simon lived at home. According to his parents, Ropenfeld was evil and did everything he could to make poor Mr. Haden’s life miserable.
One night little Simon had a nightmare that took place in a town he was told by one of its citizens was named Ropenfeld. When he said it for the first time, the man stretched out the name so that it sounded like something haunted. Rooooopenfeld! What followed was a lurid, horrific dream and the boy woke from it bleating like a lamb being slaughtered. When his parents eventually came in to check on their still-crying child, he told them all about it. Both of the adults smiled. Mr. Haden thought it very fitting and patriotic that his little son should have his first cry-himself-awake nightmare in a town called Ropenfeld. Mrs. Haden just thought Simon had an overactive imagination.
Oddly enough for such a mediocre unimaginative person, it didn’t end there. For the rest of his life, many of Simon Haden’s nightmares took place in Ropenfeld. He never understood why things happened there but eventually he came to accept it as part of his chemistry.
Sometimes he dreamed of drowning in Lake Ropenfeld. Sometimes he crashe
d in a plane that was about to land in the town. The pilot would make his announcement—“We’re making our final approach to Ropenfeld airport.” Then there would be the dire sound of a giant metal part breaking, the plane would lurch to one side, and they would fall into an endless nosedive. Haden had several plane-crash dreams and at the time took it to be a portent of how he would die eventually: in a flaming spin from five miles up. How dismayed he would have been to learn that in real life he would die of a heart attack while going through the last rinse cycle in a Los Angeles car wash.
Sometimes in his nightmares, a fifteen-year-old Haden walked naked down the halls of Ropenfeld high school carrying only his textbooks. Beautiful clothed classmates pointed at him and laughed hysterically. One time they laughed, then all of them pulled out switchblade knives and attacked him. In another dream, a car full of his mothers slammed on its brakes right next to him as he walked down Ropenfeld Street. Mom after mom jumped out, like a clown car in the circus. They kept coming and coming. All of his mothers screamed at him for not having done a hundred thises and disappointing them for another hundred thats.
The bear hesitated again, unsure whether what it was about to say was allowed. All of this was brand-new territory for Bob. It was new territory for all of them.
“I shouldn’t tell you this.”
“Tell me what?” Haden showed only irritation. He thought the bear was going to try a different way of persuading him.
“Sooner or later you’ll have to go, Simon. That’s how it works here: everyone who has died must return to their Ropenfeld and confront what happened there. Find out why you dreamt those things when you did. It’s an essential part of understanding who you are through who you were. By returning to the nightmares you had and working through them bit by bit, you learn to understand certain important aspects of your life. That’s part of the process here.”
“Yeah? Well fuck it, Bob. I think I’ll wait another thousand years or so before I tackle that aspect of my life. Just being here is enough of a nightmare for right now. My plate is full—I don’t need a second helping.”
GLASS SOUP Page 11
