Children Playing Before a Statue of Hercules

by David Sedaris

  William whipped into the driveway and braked at the last second, just shy of Mason’s Cougar. He shifted into Reverse and tossed Charlie a salute. “Happy birthday, man.”

  “You’re not coming in?”

  “Naw. I gotta go get those losers.”

  Charlie gripped his left hand in his right, remembering the Foosball game. His heart would not slow down.

  “I like the girl,” he said.

  “Colleen?”

  He turned and William smiled and Charlie saw a light in his eyes he hadn’t seen in so long he’d forgotten it even existed.

  “You know what her name means?” William asked.

  It was the light, Charlie realized, from the nights when they shared a room and William told stories and they had no idea that one of them was adopted.

  “What’s it mean?” he asked.

  William took a deep drag on the cigarette and stared out the windshield. “Means Irish girl.”

  Mason was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his hands in his pockets, jingling change and keys. “Where’d he take you?” he said quietly.

  Charlie glanced into the dining room and saw a chocolate bakery cake with unlit candles and a small pile of gifts on the table. “Nowhere.”

  “Nowhere?”

  He shrugged and felt a wet heat in his armpits, a weakness in his legs that told him what a terrible thing he was about to do. But he did it anyway, and for no good reason except that he hadn’t been able to do it the night he should’ve.

  “We went to the movies,” he lied. “It was my birthday present.” He took a step toward the stairs, but Mason grabbed his arm, pulled him back into the kitchen.

  “Don’t you walk away from me.”

  “Let me go!” Charlie wasn’t afraid, exactly, his father had never hit him his whole life, but he wanted out of that grip before the tears came and ruined everything.

  “You reek of smoke, Charlie. You reek of smoke and pot. Were you smoking pot in that car?”

  “What?”

  “Did you smoke anything with William?”

  “No!”

  “Don’t you lie to me.”

  “I’m not!”

  Mason had a hold of both arms now, squeezing to the bone, and he was shaking him, a low, rapid jerking that seemed beyond his control. Charlie watched his father’s face redden and saw the look in his eyes and thought he was maybe having a heart attack. “Dad,” he said. “Dad!” He grabbed his father’s wrists and squeezed but his father just held on, staring at him so intensely, so strangely, that Charlie would wonder later if it wasn’t at that exact second that William tried to beat the train.

  For this to be true he’d have to have driven very fast after dropping Charlie off, in a rush to get back to his friends, back to Colleen, or maybe the light was in his eyes and he drove the only way he knew how when he felt like that, like a man from another planet, like a superhero. Charlie sees him flicking his Camel out the window and gripping the wheel in both hands. He sees his boot stomp the gas pedal and the muscles of his jaw grow hard as the Chevy leaps, and he sees his eyes, the light, the flash of blue wonder, the moment he knows he’s not going to make it.

  Everything after that seems to happen through a cracked window, with Charlie standing outside looking in. There’s the police in the house, led there by a driver’s license. There’s the drive across town and the sound Charlie can hear, sitting in the Cougar in the driveway, of his mother at the kitchen table, her cry a piercing thing, a teapot beginning to boil, a January wind. There’s the funeral and William’s friends in their cheap ties and army jackets sulking like war buddies. And there’s Colleen, wrapping her arms around Charlie so fiercely, so hungrily, that he knows she doesn’t know—that she believes Charlie is a true brother, a living blood link to the body in the coffin.

  And after that there’s just the long withering summer, the weekends with his father, the two of them going out for meals, going to movies, taking long drives at night with the top down. One Saturday, a carpenter comes, an old guy who gets Charlie to help him carry his tools up the stairs and hand him the things he asks for, and when they’re done, William’s door looks good as new, the brass strike plate, that shocked little mouth, back in place. At the end of the summer, the house is sold and Charlie moves in with Mason for the school year, into a two-bedroom house close to Charlie’s new school, and they begin to eat at home in the evenings and Mason begins a new trial and Charlie learns that a pretty girl at school likes him—and still.

  Still it’s the same town, and when they go somewhere in the Cougar, no matter what streets they take or how they time it, they end up stuck before a passing train. When this happens they don’t talk and they don’t look at each other, though Charlie would like to know what his father is thinking, if he’s thinking about the night he kicked down William’s door, or something better, like teaching him to ride a bike, or maybe the day they brought him home, their new son. If his father asked him, Charlie would try to describe the last time he saw William—the look in his eyes, the blue light, the wild secret rush when William said the words “Irish girl.”

  But his father doesn’t ask and the train is a long one, and so they sit there, having no choice, and watch for its end.

  Bullet in the Brain

  Tobias Wolff

  Anders couldn’t get to the bank until just before it closed, so of course the line was endless and he got stuck behind two women whose loud, stupid conversation put him in a murderous temper. He was never in the best of tempers anyway, Anders—a book critic known for the weary, elegant savagery with which he dispatched almost everything he reviewed.

  With the line still doubled around the rope, one of the tellers stuck a “POSITION CLOSED” sign in her window and walked to the back of the bank, where she leaned against a desk and began to pass the time with a man shuffling papers. The women in front of Anders broke off their conversation and watched the teller with hatred. “Oh, that’s nice,” one of them said. She turned to Anders and added, confident of his accord, “One of those little human touches that keep us coming back for more.”

  Anders had conceived his own towering hatred of the teller, but he immediately turned it on the presumptuous crybaby in front of him. “Damned unfair,” he said. “Tragic, really. If they’re not chopping off the wrong leg, or bombing your ancestral village, they’re closing their positions.”

  She stood her ground. “I didn’t say it was tragic,” she said. “I just think it’s a pretty lousy way to treat your customers.”

  “Unforgivable,” Anders said. “Heaven will take note.”

  She sucked in her cheeks but stared past him and said nothing. Anders saw that the other woman, her friend, was looking in the same direction. And then the tellers stopped what they were doing, and the customers slowly turned, and silence came over the bank. Two men wearing black ski masks and blue business suits were standing to the side of the door. One of them had a pistol pressed against the guard’s neck. The guard’s eyes were closed, and his lips were moving. The other man had a sawed-off shotgun. “Keep your big mouth shut!” the man with the pistol said, though no one had spoken a word. “One of you tellers hits the alarm, you’re all dead meat. Got it?”

  The tellers nodded.

  “Oh, bravo,” Anders said. “Dead meat.” He turned to the woman in front of him. “Great script, eh? The stern, brass-knuckled poetry of the dangerous classes.”

  She looked at him with drowning eyes.

  The man with the shotgun pushed the guard to his knees. He handed the shotgun to his partner and yanked the guard’s wrists up behind his back and locked them together with a pair of handcuffs. He toppled him onto the floor with a kick between the shoulder blades. Then he took his shotgun back and went over to the security gate at the end of the counter. He was short and heavy and moved with peculiar slowness, even torpor. “Buzz him in,” his partner said. The man with the shotgun opened the gate and sauntered along the line of tellers, handing each o
f them a Hefty bag. When he came to the empty position he looked over at the man with the pistol, who said, “Whose slot is that?”

  Anders watched the teller. She put her hand to her throat and turned to the man she’d been talking to. He nodded. “Mine,” she said.

  “Then get your ugly ass in gear and fill that bag.”

  “There you go,” Anders said to the woman in front of him. “Justice is done.”

  “Hey! Bright boy! Did I tell you to talk?”

  “No,” Anders said.

  “Then shut your trap.”

  “Did you hear that?” Anders said. “ ‘Bright boy.’ Right out of The Killers.”

  “Please be quiet,” the woman said.

  “Hey, you deaf or what?” The man with the pistol walked over to Anders. He poked the weapon into Anders’ gut. “You think I’m playing games?”

  “No,” Anders said, but the barrel tickled like a stiff finger and he had to fight back the titters. He did this by making himself stare into the man’s eyes, which were clearly visible behind the holes in the mask: pale blue and rawly red-rimmed. The man’s left eyelid kept twitching. He breathed out a piercing, ammoniac smell that shocked Anders more than anything that had happened, and he was beginning to develop a sense of unease when the man prodded him again with the pistol.

  “You like me, bright boy?” he said. “You want to suck my dick?”

  “No,” Anders said.

  “Then stop looking at me.”

  Anders fixed his gaze on the man’s shiny wing-tip shoes.

  “Not down there. Up there.” He stuck the pistol under Anders’ chin and pushed it upward until Anders was looking at the ceiling.

  Anders had never paid much attention to that part of the bank, a pompous old building with marble floors and counters and pillars, and gilt scrollwork over the tellers’ cages. The domed ceiling had been decorated with mythological figures whose fleshy, toga-draped ugliness Anders had taken in at a glance many years earlier and afterward declined to notice. Now he had no choice but to scrutinize the painter’s work. It was even worse than he remembered, and all of it executed with the utmost gravity. The artist had a few tricks up his sleeve and used them again and again—a certain rosy blush on the underside of the clouds, a coy backward glance on the faces of the cupids and fauns. The ceiling was crowded with various dramas, but the one that caught Anders’ eye was Zeus and Europa—portrayed, in this rendition, as a bull ogling a cow from behind a haystack. To make the cow sexy, the painter had canted her hips suggestively and given her long, droopy eyelashes through which she gazed back at the bull with sultry welcome. The bull wore a smirk and his eyebrows were arched. If there’d been a bubble coming out of his mouth, it would have said, “Hubba hubba.”

  “What’s so funny, bright boy?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You think I’m comical? You think I’m some kind of clown?”

  “No.”

  “You think you can fuck with me?”

  “No.”

  “Fuck with me again, you’re history. Capiche?”

  Anders burst out laughing. He covered his mouth with both hands and said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” then snorted helplessly through his fingers and said, “Capiche—oh, God, capiche,” and at that the man with the pistol raised the pistol and shot Anders right in the head.

  The bullet smashed Anders’ skull and plowed through his brain and exited behind his right ear, scattering shards of bone into the cerebral cortex, the corpus callosum, back toward the basal ganglia, and down into the thalamus. But before all this occurred, the first appearance of the bullet in the cerebrum set off a crackling chain of ion transports and neuro-transmissions. Because of their peculiar origin these traced a peculiar pattern, flukishly calling to life a summer afternoon some forty years past, and long since lost to memory. After striking the cranium the bullet was moving at 900 feet per second, a pathetically sluggish, glacial pace compared to the synaptic lightning that flashed around it. Once in the brain, that is, the bullet came under the mediation of brain time, which gave Anders plenty of leisure to contemplate the scene that, in a phrase he would have abhorred, “passed before his eyes.”

  It is worth noting what Anders did not remember, given what he did remember. He did not remember his first lover, Sherry, or what he had most madly loved about her, before it came to irritate him—her unembarrassed carnality, and especially the cordial way she had with his unit, which she called Mr. Mole, as in “Uh-oh, looks like Mr. Mole wants to play,” and “Let’s hide Mr. Mole!” Anders did not remember his wife, whom he had also loved before she exhausted him with her predictability, or his daughter, now a sullen professor of economics at Dartmouth. He did not remember standing just outside his daughter’s door as she lectured her bear about his naughtiness and described the truly appalling punishments Paws would receive unless he changed his ways. He did not remember a single line of the hundreds of poems he had committed to memory in his youth so that he could give himself the shivers at will—not “Silent, upon a peak in Darien,” or “My God, I heard this day,” or “All my pretty ones? Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?” None of these did he remember; not one. Anders did not remember his dying mother saying of his father, “I should have stabbed him in his sleep.”

  He did not remember Professor Josephs telling his class how Athenian prisoners in Sicily had been released if they could recite Aeschylus, and then reciting Aeschylus himself, right there, in the Greek. Anders did not remember how his eyes had burned at those sounds. He did not remember the surprise of seeing a college class-mate’s name on the jacket of a novel not long after they graduated, or the respect he had felt after reading the book. He did not remember the pleasure of giving respect.

  Nor did Anders remember seeing a woman leap to her death from the building opposite his own just days after his daughter was born. He did not remember shouting, “Lord have mercy!” He did not remember deliberately crashing his father’s car into a tree, or having his ribs kicked in by three policemen at an anti-war rally, or waking himself up with laughter. He did not remember when he began to regard the heap of books on his desk with boredom and dread, or when he grew angry at writers for writing them. He did not remember when everything began to remind him of something else.

  This is what he remembered. Heat. A baseball field. Yellow grass, the whirr of insects, himself leaning against a tree as the boys of the neighborhood gather for a pickup game. He looks on as the others argue the relative genius of Mantle and Mays. They have been worrying this subject all summer, and it has become tedious to Anders: an oppression, like the heat.

  Then the last two boys arrive, Coyle and a cousin of his from Mississippi. Anders has never met Coyle’s cousin before and will never see him again. He says hi with the rest but takes no further notice of him until they’ve chosen sides and someone asks the cousin what position he wants to play. “Shortstop,” the boy says. “Short’s the best position they is.” Anders turns and looks at him. He wants to hear Coyle’s cousin repeat what he’s just said, but he knows better than to ask. The others will think he’s being a jerk, ragging the kid for his grammar. But that isn’t it, not at all—it’s that Anders is strangely roused, elated, by those final two words, their pure unexpectedness and their music. He takes the field in a trance, repeating them to himself.

  The bullet is already in the brain; it won’t be outrun forever, or charmed to a halt. In the end it will do its work and leave the troubled skull behind, dragging its comet’s tail of memory and hope and talent and love into the marble hall of commerce. That can’t be helped. But for now Anders can still make time. Time for the shadows to lengthen on the grass, time for the tethered dog to bark at the flying ball, time for the boy in right field to smack his sweat-blackened mitt and softly chant, They is, they is, they is.

  Epilogue: About 826NYC

  Sarah Vowell

  You are not holding a book. You happen to have in your hands a desk or two, a couple of computers, untold
reams of paper, a photocopier, wood floors, a digital projector, and one new full-time staff member named Ted who weighs 166 pounds. No wonder your arms are sore!

  Sure, you were always walking around asking yourself, “I wonder what David Sedaris’s favorite works of short fiction are.” And then one day you happened in a bookstore and saw this volume, a volume that answers that very crucial question of just what this guy reads when he takes a break from crafting his own hilarious yet wistful tales. (Flannery O’Connor, it turns out. That makes sense, but Patricia Highsmith: Who knew?) That, you were thinking, was enough. Art for art’s sake and all that.

  I hate to break it to you, but by buying this book, you are helping people. Not just people. Even worse: kids! All the proceeds from Children Playing Before a Statue of Hercules go toward 826NYC, a nonprofit organization offering free writing workshops and after-school tutoring to students ages six to eighteen. Things don’t get less Patricia Highsmith than that, do they? Though one wonders if Highsmith’s most famous character, Tom Ripley, might have turned out less murderous if he had benefited from the one-on-one attention provided by the intelligent, encouraging volunteer tutors like the ones at 826NYC.

  826NYC offers free drop-in tutoring for students between the ages of six and eighteen five days a week. As I write this, toward the end of 826’s inaugural semester, we average around thirty students a day, almost all of them from public schools. Our regulars include a six-year-old aficionado of dinosaurs and ninjas; a free-spirited twelve-year-old who has learned to sit down and sit still, finishing his homework every day for the first time in his life; a trio of brothers who live around the corner, one of whom, after wrapping up his homework, composes comics in which he saves his favorite tutor from monsters and robbers; and one thirteen-year-old Russian immigrant keen to talk about Dostoyevsky. Volunteer tutors help the students with their homework, which is one of our core services. But just as important to the 826 ethos is the personal attention each child receives. The tutors don’t simply help the tutees get better grades, they talk to them, notice them, hear them out.