The Quick & the Dead
Page 33
Was the last breath of a thing relevant? Emily wondered. She couldn’t imagine why it would be.
Now this day was passing, the dreaminess of it. Alice Alive, she thought, running. Alice Endurance, Alice Errant, Alice the Dark. Alice the Alone. Dogs barked in the distance. Unseen traffic whined. The desert became pasture, then park. Permanent toilet facilities. Basketball courts. The former site of the Hohokam Drive-In Theatre, so recently torn down, where Corvus had taken Tommy to see the movies. There one day, gone the next, as ephemeral as the ephemerals it had, in its inception, replaced. Cars and trucks, separated by the now-speakerless pipes, still lined the slotted rows, drawn to this seedless waste as to the old memories of stories not their own. The occupant of each had something used for sale. Infants screamed. People were everywhere relaxing.
At the edge of the park, people milled about holding candles, each with a white, wax-catching skirt. There was a big box of candles. A boy was scooping them up and handing them out, a skinny, shirtless boy in brand-new dungarees, his hair white as glare. He reminded Alice of that boy the three of them had tied up, when there had been three of them. He looked just as eager and dumb, though he didn’t have the same crookedness, and there was the hair of course. Still, he looked a lot like him. Everybody’s got their double, it just wasn’t good to see them. When Corvus had seen Sherwin’s fetch it had certainly not done Sherwin any good. She heard the feign of him saying, “When the two shall be one and the without as the within and the male with the female neither male nor female, that’s when the party begins.”
“Hey there,” the boy said, grinning at her. “You here for the vigil?”
“No,” Alice said.
“First time, huh?”
“What’s it for?”
“Tonight it’s for the aquifer. Lots of people can’t quite grasp the aquifer.”
“Grasp it?”
“Understand how it works.” He was so skinny his ribs showed.
She splayed her hand out before her. “Don’t explain,” she said.
“Last night it was the octopus. Would you have liked that better?”
She would not confess to this.
“Those big eyes, man. And, if they like you, they turn this rosy color. You know what its flesh feels like? Like the inside of your cheek. But things aren’t looking up for the big mollusk. Richly deserving of a vigil, the octopus. Night before that, the Greenland ice sheet. You can’t play favorites.” He was efficiently handing out candles as he spoke. “To continue backwards. Wild horses on BLM land, fetuses, the earth in general, that synagogue from the thirties downtown they want to demolish, fetuses again. We try not to repeat in a month’s time, but fetuses keep coming up. They’re in demand. As a nonprofit, nonsectarian organization, we have no agenda. No long-term goal. We’ve got vigils against stuff, too. Nights against grafted cactus, technological entrancement, alternative fuels, the fur trim on those big ski parkas you see people wearing when it ain’t even cold? That’s German shepherd.”
People were pushing against her, beginning to gather, gazing in earnest at the unlit candles, fingering and crimping the paper skirts. They had pictures of dusty foreign children pinned to their breasts. Pictures of beached whales. Human limbs in ditches. Humans without limbs in ditches.
“Caring doesn’t have to be elitist. True compassion is wordless and hopeless of effecting change. You know what’s nice? When we run out of candles on any given night. Then people come back earlier the next night. They want to be assured of a candle. To be without a candle is not a good thing.”
People were chatting, smiling solemnly. Some had pictures of scenic highways hanging from eyeglass cords around their necks. These were the adopters—having adopted stretches of asphalt, library shelves, eroding beaches, grizzly bears, unique deadly microbes that nevertheless were singular life-forms and should not be exterminated.
“I’ve learned a lot since I started giving out candles. I’m going to start selling them soon, a nickel a pop, but for now they’re free. I used to be so dumb you wouldn’t believe it, but now I’m the Candleman. I’m smart and sane, living on the glow, the displacement in the air the flame makes. I could go anywhere with this routine. The world’s my oyster.”
“What does that mean?” Alice said.
“Another mollusk. Or are you referring to ‘anywhere’? You don’t know what anywhere is? You can live there when you don’t know where else to go. You can make a living anywhere off the caring of others. Feel it! I can feel you feeling it. We’re connected, you and I. I’m looking for a busker babe to work the crowds with, that could be you.”
“You’re kidding,” Alice said, offended. She wasn’t about to be someone who was in a place only because she wasn’t anywhere else.
“You ever live in a pipe, a box, a Dumpster?” the Candleman said. You can be born without an enzyme, a brain, a sense of wonder. You can live like a rat, man, then boom, something better comes along. I’ve seen what comes next. Vigils. Concern is the new consumerism. A person’s worth can be measured by the number and intensity of his concerns. Candles, lighting a candle, confers the kind of fulfillment that only empty ritual can bring. Empty ritual’s important. It’s coming back as a force in people’s lives. Its role is being acknowledged. It’s the keystone for tomorrow’s dealings in an annexed and exploited world. And holding a candle, cradling a little flame with others holding their candle, cradling their little flame gives people the opportunity to experience something bigger than themselves without surrendering themselves to it. A single candle is the symbol of individuated as opposed to universal life. The latter scares people. They don’t want any part of it. It’s spooky, like primordial slime, man, it’s not pretty. Still, a candle alone is nothing. The Candleman knows that. You know that. You’d feel stupid holding it, looking at it. But in the midst of innumerable strangers holding theirs, it works. It’s absolving, it’s reassuring. I’m down to two. Only two left. Take one.”
But they were gone in a twinkling, the first claimed by a man, friend of the Salton Sea, the last by a woman, friend of the symphony.
“Concern for the aquifer isn’t enough tonight,” the Candleman said. “I’ve been detecting a softening around the edges for some time now. Specificity isn’t flying. Running out of candles is no longer going to be the exception but the rule.”
“It seems kind of diluted out here,” Alice said.
“Still ten minutes before shutdown and the lighting, and every bloody candle gone,” the boy marveled.
A well-dressed gentleman in yellow trousers looked unhappily into the empty box. There was a Band-Aid on the bridge of his nose.
“Precancerous?” the Candleman asked solicitously.
Others came, looked into the empty box, departed wordlessly.
“The moment of silence is going to be the new desired thing,” the Candleman said to Alice. “It’s the appropriate response. There’s a pertinence, a satisfaction, in respectfully acknowledging what’s about to become history, whatever can’t cope, can’t adapt or relocate.”
Two people walked past wearing straitjackets, their mouths covered with tape.
“Some, you know, their concerns are obscure, but they’re all participating in a healthy outrage and sorrow. There’s nothing like lighting your little candle when all around you others are lighting theirs. Nothing! Illumination. Extinguishment. Equilibrium. Then everybody goes home.”
“I’m not going to be a part of this,” Alice said.
“Not going to be a part!” He chuckled. “You’ve got to be a part. Don’t you know anything about mathematics? The lost invariants of life can be found only through numbers and their relationships. You have a number, and what you think has happened to you has a number too. It’s all numbers, man, just numbers. God talks in numbers, endless numbers.” He gestured at the crowd. “This is nothing.”
He really reminded her of that boy, that long-ago midsummer boy who had seemed so desperate to explain himself.
“You�
��ll be a part of it, all right,” the Candleman assured her. “You dream, don’t you?”
Night was approaching in languorous measure. Alice didn’t want to be here for it. And she didn’t believe everything was numbers. Why would God bother to talk in numbers? This boy wasn’t very convincing. She turned away from him without answering, away from the modest spectacle about to occur.
“You got no choice!” he shouted. “You’ll see!” Oh, she thought she didn’t dream, but one morning she was going to wake up, yes, she was, she would wake from the dream even the most reluctant and particular have but once, the one where four animals arrive to carry you off for the moment. You have never seen such animals as these who without a sound or a sign carry you off. You race with them across the long familiar ground that in that moment seems so glorious, so charged with beauty, strange. In their jaws you are carried so effortlessly, with such great care that you think it will never end, you long for it not to end, and then you wake and know that, indeed, they have not brought you back.
JOY WILLIAMS
Joy Williams is the author of four novels, three short story collections, and a history of the Florida Keys. She has received the Rea Award for the short story and the Strauss Living Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Her most recent novel, The Quick and the Dead, was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize.
Books by Joy Williams
Novels
State of Grace
The Changeling
Breaking and Entering
The Quick and the Dead
Short Stories
Taking Care
Escapes
Honored Guest
Nonfiction
The Florida Keys: A History and Guide
Ill Nature
BOOKS BY JOY WILLIAMS
THE QUICK AND THE DEAD
Misanthropic Alice is a budding eco-terrorist; Corvus has dedicated herself to mourning; Annabel is desperate to pursue an ordinary American life of indulgences. Misfit and motherless, they share an American desert summer of darkly illuminating signs and portents. In locales as mirrored strange as a nursing home where the living dead are preserved, to a wildlife museum where the dead are presented as living, the girls attend to their future. A remarkable attendant cast of characters, including a stroke survivor whose soulmate is a vivisected monkey, an aging big-game hunter who finds spiritual renewal in his infatuation with an eight-year-old—the formidable Emily Bliss Plickless—and a widower whose wife continues to harangue him, populate this gloriously funny and wonderfully serious novel where the dead are forever infusing the living, and all creatures strive to participate in eternity
Fiction/978-0-375-72764-1
STATE OF GRACE
Nominated for the National Book Award in 1974, this haunting, profoundly disquieting novel manages to be at once sparse and lush, to combine Biblical simplicity with Gothic intensity and strangeness. It is the story of Kate, despised by her mother, bound to her father by ties stronger and darker than blood. It is the story of her attempted escapes—in detached sexual encounters, at a Southern college populated by spoiled and perverse beauties, and in a doomed marriage to a man who cannot understand what she is running from. Witty, erotic, and searingly acute, State of Grace bears the inimitable stamp of one of our finest and most provocative writers.
Fiction/978-0-679-72619-7
ILL NATURE
Most of us watch with mild concern the fast-disappearing wild spaces or the recurrence of pollution-related crises such as oil spills, toxic blooms in fertilizer-enriched forests, and violence both home and abroad. Joy Williams does more than watch. In this collection of condemnations and love letters, revelations and cries for help, she brings to light the price of complacency with scathing wit and unexpected humor. Sounding the alarm over the disconnection from the natural world that our consumer culture has created, she takes on subjects as varied as the culling of elephants, electron-probed chimpanzees, vanishing wetlands, and the determination of American women to reproduce at any cost. Controversial, opinionated, at times exceptionally moving, Ill Nature is a clarion call for us to step out of our cars and cubicles, and do something to save our natural legacy.
Nature/Essays/978-0-375-71363-7
HONORED GUEST
With her singular brand of gorgeous dark humor, Joy Williams explores the various ways—comic, tragic, and unnerving—we seek to accommodate diminishment and loss. A masseuse breaks her rich client’s wrist bone, a friend visits at the hospital long after she is welcome, and a woman surrenders her husband to a creepily adoring student. From one of our most acclaimed writers, Honored Guest is a rich examination of our capacity for transformation and salvation.
Fiction/Short Stories/978-1-4000-9552-0
ALSO AVAILABLE
Taking Care, 978-0-394-72912-1
VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES
Available at your local bookstore, or visit
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