After Silence

by Jonathan Carroll

  “I believe you. It’s just different from the story your mother told. She said you never saw your father. And he died when you were only a year old.”

  But what if he’d seen his real father? What if the man who’d touched his nose was Gregory Meier, not the all too mysterious Rick Aaron, who was turning more and more ectoplasmic as time went by? It made sense.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I remember Mom holding me in her arms and this big man’s face like a balloon coming down on me. Then he touched my nose like I told you. That’s all, but I knew it was my dad.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Max, can I talk to you seriously now?” He stopped walking and turned to face me. I stopped too.

  “Sure.”

  “Elvis had this newspaper that said there was a woman in Europe who had sex with two hundred men in one night. Is that possible? He said it was, but I think it’s bull.”

  “Where does he get these magazines? Was it The Truth again? Where does he buy that rag? Who sells it to a ten-year-old boy?”

  “He says he steals it from the drugstore. I don’t know where he gets the others. He’s always showing me stuff with naked girls or things that say a guy cooked and ate his whole family. No, but really, is that one true? Nobody can do it that much. Can you have sex that much?”

  “No! Come on, you know those newspapers are goofy and full of baloney. We talked about it already. Most people are happy to have sex once or twice a week.”

  His mouth tightened and I could see he was biting the inside of his lip. “I never asked anyone questions like this, Max. Not Mom or anyone. You’re the first, like, adult I know I can talk to who doesn’t get ticked off or upset or something.”

  “Your mom’s a good egg. She’d answer you.”

  “Unh-unh! She gets really angry at me sometimes when I ask questions. You don’t know, because you’re not always there. You’re different. You’re like my friend and my father at the same time. I know I had a dad, but you take his place in every way.”

  “Thank you very much, Lincoln. That makes me feel wonderful inside.”

  He sounded indignant. “It’s true! Living with Mom was okay, but you know how we don’t get along. She doesn’t see things the way I do. Sometimes I don’t ask her things or tell her what I feel in my heart ‘cause she’ll flip out or something. You’re different. You and I talk about everything ‘cause I know you won’t dump on me or yell ‘cause I asked something sexy or maybe stupid… I don’t know. Ohh, I’ve just got to have a hug from you!” Startling me, he grabbed me around the waist and hugged really hard. People walking by us on the street looked and smiled. A man and his boy and their love for each other filling every corner of the world.

  On the ride home, we had a pinballing discussion about robots, sex, Elvis, Lily, me. Lincoln continued his endless list of “best/worst” questions in the usual rapid-fire delivery: What was the name of my best friend when I was ten? What was the grossest car accident I ever saw? List my qualities for the greatest-looking woman in the world. Was Lily the best kisser I’d ever kissed? When he did this, and it was often, I imagined him compiling a never-ending personality profile of me for his inner files. Once after a particularly long and grueling session—with Lily off in a corner of the room smiling—I drew her a picture of the back of a small boy sitting at a giant desk with a giant quill pen in hand surrounded by ceiling-high piles of folders and messy papers. I titled the drawing “Reviewing Max Fischer.”

  When we pulled into the driveway, he’d just finished asking if I thought God might be a plant.

  Pulling up the hand brake, I stared ahead through the windshield. “A plant? What makes you think that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “Max, remember the time you said if God was so powerful, could He make a rock even He couldn’t pick up? That’s the coolest idea!”

  “It is, but I didn’t think it up.”

  “You didn’t? I told Elvis you did. Know what he said?”

  “What?”

  “That you’re weird. Max, I gotta ask you one more thing. I haven’t told Mom about this yet because I wanted us to talk about it first. Since you can’t be my real father, you wanna be blood brothers?”

  I was touched yet horrified. Sure, I’d become his blood brother; then as “family” I could tell him not only is Lily not your mother but she’s going to have to go to jail too. What would happen when he heard the truth about her? Understood what she had done to him? I wanted to be his father, wanted to marry his false mother and live happily ever after with both of them. But none of it was possible now. I had to do something about the predicament; I couldn’t ignore the appalling truth any longer. If nothing else, I had to confront her and ask: What are we going to do? What are we going to do with our love and perfect life now that we’re doomed no matter how we slice it? I’d smiled on realizing that if she weren’t the cause of it, then logical, clever Mrs. Aaron would have been the perfect person to go to for help with this monstrous problem. Excuse me, Lily, could you step out of your body a moment and help me with this trouble I’m having with you?

  “What do you think?”

  “About being blood brothers? I think it’s a great idea. When would you want to do it?”

  “Now! I’ll go get a knife.”

  “Whoa, horsey! A knife? Are you nuts? A little pin’ll do just fine.”

  “Yeah, but a knife—”

  “A pin, Linc. I’ll give you my blood, but not my arm.”

  He raced off, thrilled. We were about to go on an adventure together, just us two. His mother and the rest of life would have to wait outside while we did it—it was only ours and that’s how he wanted it.

  I did too. Tonight we’d prick our fingers, press them together, and vow eternal brotherhood. A ceremony old as human friendship. We’d smear our shared red over the lens and blot out the imminent rest for a moment. So long as I didn’t know what to do next, being happy with the boy an evening more was as good as things could be then.

  Our house had been cleaned the day before. The wooden floors shone, pillows still lay plumped and in line on the couch, a sweet lingering smell of soap or furniture polish was in the air, despite Cobb’s own ripe perfume. It would take three or four days of living in these rooms to make things wrinkled and ours again. I liked both—the clean order followed by the clutter and jumble that came from three people’s full speed ahead across the same space.

  “Max, do you think this’ll do?” He came running full tilt into the room, a long sewing needle held in front of him.

  “Don’t run! I’ve told you not to run with something sharp in your hand. It’s really dangerous!”

  “Yeah, but I—”

  “But nothing, Lincoln! Think about it a minute and see how dangerous it is. You trip, you fall on it, and maybe it goes in your eye. Or into your neck–”

  “Okay. I believe you.”

  “No, you don’t. You’ve got that look that says I’m being a drag. But look here and my expression says you’re a total dope, running around with something sharp like that in your hand.”

  “A dope, huh?” Dropping the pin, he came at me in his usual bent-over attack position for wrestling. He went for my knees, but I grabbed him on either side of his waist and, picking him up, turned him upside down—a move that never failed to make him shout his delight.

  “Cheater! No fair! You’re stronger. Let me down!”

  “Damn right I’m stronger, dopo.”

  “Dopo?! All right, you’re dead!” Upside down, he grabbed me around the waist and shook me side to side as best he could. Off balance, I stumbled with him in my arms across the floor. We were both laughing. He bit me on the leg, not hard but hard enough.

  “Hey!”

  “Attack!”

  I loosened my hold just enough to make him think I was going to drop him. He squeezed harder. “No
!”

  Wobbling us over to the couch, I dropped him there after making sure he’d fall on a soft target. Lying on his back, he puffed and wiggled his fingers at me like tentacles. When I dropped down next to him, he grabbed my head. We went at it on the couch, the floor, the couch again. I let him put a full nelson on me, then slipped out of it and put one on him. You have to be careful, though, because kids are sensitive about wrestling. Some want to win every time, others lose. It’s a diplomatic act which, if you do it wrong, can end up a big insult. Lincoln liked it fifty-fifty. He liked being overwhelmed, held in the air by his feet so he could wail and thrash, but never too long. Next, he wanted you in his power a while—a long headlock or sitting on your chest and twisting your nose usually sufficed. The most endearing thing about wrestling with him was when he had you in a hold, he never tried to hurt. One grunt or yelp and he’d let go immediately and apologize like mad. In contrast, I’d once been foolish enough to wrestle with Elvis, at his insistence. The little germ circus punched me square in the balls. “Accidentally,” of course.

  “I got you now!” Holding on tight, Lincoln rode the back of my leg as I elephant-clomped around the living room, trumpeting like I imagined a wounded elephant would sound. Vocal effects were an integral part of our wrestling.

  “Death to all Bee Hees!” He spanked me hard on the ass.

  “What’s a Bee Hee?”

  “You!”

  “Bee Hees forever!” I turned and, bending down to peel him off, banged my head a real whack on a hanging lamp. It hit, I went to grab my head, the lamp swung out and back and hit me again. “Christ!”

  “Max, are you okay?” His voice was stricken.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Did you see that? It hit me twice! Undoubtedly one of the dumbest things I’ve done in a long time—twice by the same lamp. You have to be very talented to do that!”

  “Let me see. It’s bleeding, Max!”

  I turned to a wall mirror and saw a thick lip of blood above one of my eyebrows. Gaudy, but nothing serious. “It’s okay. Would you go to the bathroom and get me a wet tissue and a couple of Band-Aids?”

  “Sure you don’t want to go to the hospital or something?”

  “No, it’s not that bad. Just get me those things, would you?”

  He left and I checked myself in the mirror again. The perils of wrestling a ten-year-old. An idea arrived. I called out, “Lincoln, where’d you put that pin? The one we were going to use before.”

  “I think it’s on the table there.” He returned with a dripping washcloth and a handful of Band-Aids. “Why?”

  “Because this, compadre, is my half of blood brothers! All you’ve gotta do now is prick your finger and touch my head.”

  “Touch your cut? That’s disgusting, Max!”

  “Hey, I’m ready with my blood, brother. You think I’m going to cut myself somewhere else? This is good, and there’s certainly enough of it. Come on, find the pin and let’s do the deed.” I took the things from him and touched my head with the cloth.

  “I found it.”

  “Good. Poke yourself in the finger carefully. We don’t need two emergency cases.”

  “Will you do it for me? I’m a little nervous.”

  “Linc, we don’t have to do this.”

  “No, no, I want to! I just don’t want to do my finger myself, you know?”

  “Okay, come here. Give it to me. Put your hand out.”

  “Is it going to hurt?” Through tightly squinted eyes, he watched me take the pin.

  “No, it’ll be one—”

  “Ow! You didn’t say you were going to do it so fast! Let me see. Whoa! Look at that blood! Heavy!”

  “Look at my head! Want to compare who’s worse?”

  “Do you really think I should touch you there? It’s a pretty bad cut.”

  “I don’t think you’re diseased. Come on, let’s do it. What should we say? ‘With this blood, I thee wed’?”

  “Very funny, Max. You’re a real loser.”

  “Thank you.” I dabbed my head. “What about ‘Blood on blood, Brothers in Arms’?”

  “That’s the name of the Dire Straits album. Wait a minute, I got it! What about ‘Bee Hees forever’? Just that alone.”

  “You don’t think it sounds too much like the Bee Gees?”

  “No, Bee Hees. Like I called you when we were wrestling.”

  “If you like it, let’s go with it.”

  He licked his lips and slowly moved his hand toward my head. “Okay. We say, ‘Bee Hees forever’ at exactly the same time. Right? I’ll count to three, and as soon as I touch you, we say it together. Okay? Okay, one-two-three.” He touched his open finger to my open head.

  Blood to blood.

  “’Bee Hees forever!’ Hey, Max, say it. Come on!”

  She had shipped Lincoln off for the weekend to Elvis’s house. She’d taken the night off from work to cook us an elaborately exotic dinner. She wore a new dress. Afterward, she made love stormily and with delightful originality. Not long after we’d finished and were lying on our backs in the dark, only our fingers touching, she began to cry. That had happened a couple of times before with her after sex, so I lay still and stroked a finger up and down her thumb.

  “I have to tell you something, Max. It’s bad and I’m very scared, but I know I have to tell you.” She turned and slid closer to me. I think she was facing me but it was so dark in the room that I had no idea what she was doing. It felt like she was having a long close moment of me either to give her strength or to burn something into her memory in case what she was about to say destroyed us. Saying nothing, she remained like that. I kept silent and didn’t move. Finally groaning deep and sad, she mumbled, “God,” and slid away. She took my arm with her, pulling it across her flattened breasts. Kissing my hand, she pressed it to the side of her face and kissed it again. “I love you more than any man I’ve ever known. I love you so much that I have to tell you these things even though—” She undid my hand from hers and pressed it to her lips. She kissed the palm, the fingers. She curled it into a fist and pushed it against her face. There was a strong and frighteningly fast pulse beating in her throat beneath one of my fingers. “I’ve done terrible things. If you were anyone else in the world I would never, ever tell. You have to know that. It’s very important to me because I believe there has to be truth between people who want to spend the rest of their lives together. Even when it’s something as bad as this. It’s such a contradiction—I love you so much that now I have to tell you the thing that can kill me.”

  I didn’t turn to her and show her an expressionless calm face which, if she could have seen it in the dark, would have told her I knew already. Instead, her confessor, I spoke quietly toward the ceiling. “What would kill you?”

  She sat up suddenly. The movement made a small breeze that swept the smell of sexy funk and her cologne past me. “A crime. I committed one of the worst crimes on earth. Me, Lily Aaron. I cannot believe I’m telling you this. You have to have the history right from the beginning. Maybe that’ll make it easier to understand. Probably not. There’s no way to understand this.

  “When you were a kid, was there one thing you wanted more than anything in the world? I mean, so much that your hunger for it tore you apart?”

  “I guess being a cartoonist came closest. I wanted that pretty bad.”

  “I wanted a baby. I wanted to be a mother. My earliest memories are of playing with dolls. But I never saw them as adults, as other girls do. I never had tea parties for them or talked to them like I was a woman and we were all grownups. The only kind of dolls I wanted were babies. If someone gave me an adult doll or even a Barbie, I’d throw it in the back of the closet. I could never understand why someone would want Barbie. A teenager? Who would want to play with a teenage doll? I wanted babies. I wanted my own.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It was always in my blood from the beginning. When I’d see a baby carriage on the street I’d race up and l
ook into it like I was looking at God. Didn’t matter if the kid was black or yellow or white. It was a baby and that was enough. If I was lucky, the woman would see my love and let me hold it a few moments. I remember being so terrified. What if I dropped it, or it didn’t like me and cried, or I did something else wrong? But holding it made me so happy, Max. It was the greatest feeling I knew on earth.

  “When I was twelve, my mother allowed me to babysit in our neighborhood. I used the mimeograph machine in my father’s office, printed up an advertisement for myself and stuck it up on every telephone pole on our block. The younger the child, the better. You know how most sitters watch TV or talk on the telephone to their friends once the parents have gone out? I never did. I’d play with the kid till it was dead tired, give it a bath whether it needed one or not, then put it in bed and watch till it fell asleep. Lots of times I’d bring my homework into their bedroom and do it by the crib while they slept. I was your ultimate dream babysitter; totally trustworthy and in love with every kid I sat for.

  “This is boring, isn’t it? I’m boring you, but believe me, it’s all important. Anyway, it’s time to undo my first lies. My family name isn’t Margolin, it’s Vincent. And I come from Glenside, Pennsylvania, not Cleveland.”

  “Why did you tell me those other things?”

  “Because I’ve been Lily Aaron from Cleveland for almost ten years. I became her so well that now I have to remind myself of the name Vincent. It’s not me anymore, I’m the Lily you know.”

  “Sounds like I don’t know Lily.”

  “Yes, you do! You know me better than anyone. You just don’t know this part because no one has ever known it. No one ever could. Please let me go on and don’t interrupt. I’m afraid if I don’t tell it all to you now, I’ll start lying again and I don’t want that. It’s taken me this long to get up the courage to do it, and the more I’ve grown to love you, the more difficult it’s become. I guess it’s like having a baby—once it starts coming, you just want to get it out.” As she spoke the last part of the sentence, she began crying again and this time it went on and on. I asked if there was anything I could do but she said no, just stay here, don’t go away.