The Yellow Wood

by The Yellow Wood (v5. 0) (epub)

  “I’m doing it, Daddy,” I all but say aloud. “I’m loving Bella for the whole family, okay? What more do you want from me?”

  Vaughn’s not here. For some reason this makes me even more uneasy and suspicious. “Where’s Vaughn?”

  She—our mother—says, “I don’t know. He hasn’t been here all day.”

  She’s lying—who knows why. The venom I’ve been hoarding for most of my life comes in handy now. “Don’t give me that crap. He was just here. I heard him playing his fucking harmonica.”

  “Alexandra!” That’s Galen, on cue. On cue, I flip him off.

  “That was me,” says our mother.

  Emily looks at me, the first time I’ve seen her look directly at anybody since the baby was born. “Oh, please,” I say, stupidly. “It was Vaughn. You never played the harmonica. Daddy did, and he taught Vaughn.”

  From the pocket of her pink pants she extracts, in fact, a harmonica. Her dark eyes flicker back and forth between my sister and me as she plays a few mournfully rollicking phrases of “Red River Valley” before a protracted coughing fit interrupts. Both actions, the playing of the harmonica and the coughing, save me from having to continue with this ridiculous argument. We all wait helplessly while the phlegmy hacking goes on and on. Embarrassed, I hate her for embarrassing me. She seems to shrink and age as she leans against the wall and then sinks into one of Vaughn’s rickety chairs, the harmonica inert now in her shaking hands. Bella moans, whether in response to the music or the coughing or out of some private distress of her own, or, most likely, for no reason at all. Will strokes her misshapen head. I want to snarl at him that that won’t do any good. I want to get out of here with or without her. I stand just inside the door and don’t let it close behind me.

  The coughing subsides. Our mother wipes at her eyes and mouth, then issues a weak, absurd invitation to all of us. “Sit down, make yourselves at home.”

  Emily, Daddy, and Will find chairs. Galen leans against the wall like a bouncer, arms across his chest. At a loss, I finally settle onto the floor, awkwardly cross-legged.

  Then, interminably, nobody says anything. I can’t stand it. To keep myself from filling the silence with something, anything, I start composing meaningful and wildly unrealistic dialogue in my head:

  “Here’s a sonata I wrote about the Kove family gift and curse.” That would be Vaughn, who in real life would never think let alone say such a thing.

  “I brought you some flowers from my garden,” is what I put in Will’s mouth, “and some special herbs. Here, have some. Be careful, though—they could be poisonous.”

  And Galen: “Peace. Justice. Social equality. It all starts here.”

  And Emily: “Give me my child.”

  Not a skilled enough writer even to imagine what my mother or Daddy or I myself might say, I’m abruptly done with this game. “So,” I ask brightly, “what’s new?”

  My mother assumes I’m talking to her, which I guess I am, or else she just automatically keeps the chatter going. “Oh, not much. And you?”

  Sitting on this uncomfortable and unstable folding chair in a room not my own among people I know both more and less than I can tolerate, aware of pain in my body and confusion in my mind and profound pervasive fatigue, knowing that forces are gathering which I might put to use if I can gather my own contrapuntal forces quickly enough—what preoccupies me is an incident between myself and Eva Marie many, many years ago, which in retrospect shows itself to have been pivotal. I wonder whether she is remembering it as well, whether in any real sense we share or shared this moment.

  Although I have long been resigned to the fact that telepathy is not one of my talents, there was a time when I mistook my power to transfer patterns of thought and perception for the ability to send and receive specific thoughts. Again now, I briefly indulge myself in the fantasy that I might be able to read this woman’s mind. I cannot, of course. I have no idea what she is thinking, what she wants, what she is remembering or planning. I have never had any such idea, about her or about anyone else.

  But my memory of what happened between us nearly half a century ago is considerably more compelling than this current inanity. I see no reason to resist immersing myself in it.

  It was an afternoon, and I was not at work, so perhaps it was a weekend or holiday, or perhaps I had taken a vacation day or called in sick. I was, in fact, sick, though no conventional physician would have confirmed my malady or malaise. What troubled me was the apprehension that something was seriously troubling my wife and that I could ameliorate, if not her distress itself, at least the disastrous results I anticipated. As it has turned out, I was quite correct in this premonition of disaster, even though clairvoyance has also never been one of my powers, which are nothing if not highly specialized, not to say rarefied.

  I was in my studio under the rock ledge, working feverishly but with little focus, when Eva Marie appeared at the entrance. We had five small children. Only now, in long retrospect, does it occur to me that she must have left them alone.

  The intense yellow of the wood in this memory is most likely the result of hindsight and poetic license. It is possible, however, that some suspicion on my part that this was a crucial encounter served to intensify the colour in which it occurred. Or perhaps the wood was, in fact, especially yellow that day, in response to me or for some reason of its own, illuminated by a confluence of meteorological and botanic forces.

  Herpie was present. I remember noticing the golden patina of her duff-brown scales. But if she has any influence over the colour of the environment in which the two of us work, I have never observed it.

  Eva Marie said to me then, “Alexander, I’m dying.”

  “I’m dying,” my mother says now.

  I think but don’t say, “Well, duh. You’re eighty—what? Eighty-one or something?” Chills are racing through me, and I want Bella, but across the crowded room Will is holding her fast, her head lolling against his chest, his head bowed over her.

  I did not at first understand that Eva Marie was waxing metaphorical, hyperbolic, which is to say deceitful. She was not in fact dying. All these years later she is still alive, and she is saying it again, the declaration she used then as an excuse and a farewell and is using now as a salutation.

  I came out of the cave to meet her in the wood itself. I believe I held out my hands to her and she refused or ignored my invitation. I demanded the clarification to which I had every right. “What do you mean? What is it?”

  “What do you mean?” It’s Emily who asks, Emily who as far as I know hasn’t uttered a complete sentence since Bella was born, other than to curse at me. I’m incensed that our mother should be the one to get through to her.

  Eva Marie’s preternatural calm was disorienting. She stood just out of my reach, face in lacy leaf shadow, hands at her sides with fists unclenched. “I’m dying,” she repeated, as if she had prepared no other explanation, as if that ought to be enough. But then she did go on, calmly. “I’m dying inside.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t find myself anymore. I’ve lost myself. I don’t feel anything. I have to leave.”

  “Leave?”

  “I can’t love these children. I can’t love you, Alex, I don’t love you. I have to get out of here. I have to—”

  Now she was speaking rapidly, urgently, and I could interrupt her. “You have an obligation—”

  She interrupted me. “I know. I can’t meet it. I can’t do this. I’m dying, Alex. I have to leave. I already told the kids.”

  I stared at her. I remember staring at her, knowing full well what I should attempt and knowing I did not have the courage. By then my practice with the children gave me a clear sense of how it would be with Eva Marie. I was not capable of the sort of dedicated parenthood to which I fervently believe all children are entitled, but I knew what it was and perhaps could have given it to Eva Mar
ie, blessed and cursed her with the ability to find herself by sacrificing herself for the children. Our children required this. Humanity requires it. Though still crude, the protocol was by then developed sufficiently that it could have been put to use. It is really rather simple:

  (1) Gather the desirable attribute into concentrated psychic form.

  (2) Find a point of entry into the intended recipient. If none exists, create one, understanding that damage is unavoidable.

  (3) Reopen the exit wound in the sender. Damage is, again, unavoidable.

  (4) Transmit. Sustain transmission as long as possible.

  (5) Repeat.

  (6) Repeat.

  (7) Repeat. Repeat well past comfort level of both sender and recipient—in fact, past tolerance. Repeat until recipient is saturated and sender depleted.

  I believe now that I could have done this, and Eva Marie would have stayed. Instead, I succumbed to profound and reprehensible moral cowardice. Rather than extending myself, I let her go.

  I was not aware of having seen her turn or move, but after a long moment she had more or less faded into the yellow miasma, and we had no contact with her for forty-six years. Until now.

  Now she is saying again, “I’m dying,” apparently the truth this time, and once again I cannot muster the fortitude we all require.

  “What does the doctor say?” Galen asks. I’m sure he must already know; this is for the benefit of the rest of us.

  “I have chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.”

  “COPD,” Galen asserts, as if correcting her. “But you smoke.”

  “It calms my nerves.”

  After a moment, I say, “I’m very sorry to hear that you’re—sick. But with all due respect, what do you expect us to do about it?”

  Emily gets to her feet, catches her balance, and begins to move. Ever the solipsist, I assume she’s coming toward me, and I brace myself, but she goes to Will and reclaims her baby. Just like that. I wouldn’t have let her take her.

  The baby gurgles and cries, no more or less randomly than ever. “Bella Bella Bella,” Emily chants softly.

  My mother gets up, too, and the effort sets off another coughing attack. Not waiting for it to subside, she makes her way toward my father, the oxygen tank at her heels. “Alexander,” she gasps, or it could be “Alexandra.”

  I’m shouting now. “You left us, remember?”

  “Help me.” Still coughing and wheezing, she stops in front of Daddy, who is more or less looking up at her. “You’re the only one who can help me do this.”

  Music explodes. Vaughn bursts into his own house, blowing and strumming and pounding and shaking many instruments with many parts of his body. Emily screams. Bella should scream, too, but doesn’t.

  Several possible courses of action occur to me in flashes. I could tackle my crazy brother, tear his instruments away from him, smash them, put an end to his music and his noise. I could just sit here and take it all in and see what happens next and write about it later or not. I could make my escape under cover of the cacophony.

  I stand up, spread my arms, plant my feet, throw back my head, and sing.

  Though it makes no sense at all, I swear Bella sings, too.

  Chapter 12

  In the past week I haven’t seen either of my parents—a curiously foreshortened perspective, considering that, until this summer, I hadn’t been seeing them at all. I also haven’t seen Bella. That peculiar family reunion at Vaughn’s place seemed at the time a turning point, or the beginning of a transition or some sort of resolution, but for me what’s come of it is less of just about everything—less understanding, less peace of mind, less sense of who I am and what I’m supposed to be doing here.

  I haven’t talked to Martin or the kids, either. That should seem strange to me, and no doubt does to them. Martin and Tara have probably called; Daddy doesn’t have an answering machine or caller ID, of course, but the phone has rung a few times.

  I’ve been alone in the house except for a visit from each of my brothers. Galen came to inform me Daddy was with Mom and we should all leave them alone until he let us know what to do and when. I said fine.

  Will brought and then stayed to cook and share tomatoes, summer squash, bell peppers, eggplant. This was motivated by self-interest more than generosity since Carol and the kids will eat so little of his harvest that, meagre as he claims it to be, most of it goes to waste or, if Galen gets to it in time, to a homeless shelter in the city. I didn’t eat enough to suit him, either, but it was more than I’d eaten in days.

  This morning Vaughn showed up with two wooden flutes and coaxed me into playing a clumsy duet with him. He’s the one who let me know Bella’s getting worse, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t provide details.

  Emily hasn’t been here. I imagine she’s busy.

  It’s been hot and muggy, hard to sleep, hard to stay awake. Everything’s teeming, myself included. I can’t sit still, but I can’t think of anywhere to go or much of a reason to be moving.

  I could be writing. All this free time with no obligations and nobody else around, all these loose thoughts and teeming images and the persistent feeling that something is trying to insinuate itself into me, pull something out of me. But I can neither concentrate nor get myself into any sort of calm, receptive, open place. The very thought of putting words on screen or paper—not to mention working on something called Fatherland—sets my nerves on edge.

  It’s after midnight, and I’ve been wandering aimlessly around the house, out onto the porch, even a few steps into the close woods, which are no doubt yellow though there’s not enough light for actual colour. I have the urge to go to Daddy’s hideout out there under the rock, the inchoate feeling that I am “supposed” to go there and find something, receive something, learn how to do something. But common sense and self-respect win out. Daddy, if you have some message or assignment or curse or gift in mind for me, bring it on. You know where I am.

  Back in the living room, I laugh at myself for defiantly sitting in my father’s chair, but I sit there and feel defiant anyway. Not for long, though. I pace the kitchen, stare into the refrigerator as if something edible or poisonous might have grown in there since the last time I looked, check again that the oven’s turned off. I go into and out of and into Daddy’s bedroom, put off and drawn by the mildly personal sights and smells of it—not very rumpled bed, eyeglasses and drinking cup and dental adhesive symmetrically arranged on the nightstand, dusty books neat and organized by author on the dusty shelf. There’s nothing in here for me, though I keep thinking there ought to be.

  In my own room, the room where I’m staying, I turn on the laptop, having made no conscious decision to do so. After a while I turn it off. I pull out the Fatherland manuscript box, thinking in a scattered sort of way that maybe I’ll read through what I’ve written and somehow get inspired.

  The top page, like a cover sheet, is Frost’s poem about the road not taken in the yellow wood. I didn’t put it there. This is Daddy’s doing, some fucking message or statement. Indignation at least has the benefit of sharpening my mental processes. He’s been messing with my personal things, intending to mess with my mind.

  And it’s all such a crock. This may be my father’s favourite poem and personal anthem, but he hasn’t actually taken a road less travelled in his life. He’s made the rest of us take them for him, be his sinecures, while he’s played it safe and hidden.

  I remove the page with the poem and crumple it, expecting to have uncovered the manuscript of my novel with Daddy’s editorial comments all over it. Instead, I’m looking at a title page, in different ink but the same small, painfully erect block letters: HANDBOOK. No author or any other attribution.

  Insulted by the thought that he’s re-titled my novel, I’m also a little sheepish—good title; wish I’d thought of it. But then I lift the page, and instead of my own typescript I find pages in Daddy’s tight cursive.
He has replaced my book with his.

  My first impulse is to throw the whole thing away unread. My second, to make as big a mess as possible by dumping it on his bed. I consider sinking into despair or exploding into rage over the appropriation or destruction of my work, which is silly since I haven’t exactly put a lot of concentrated energy into this thing over the years, and anyway, I have it all at home on disc. What I finally do, much more predictably and maybe sensibly, is carry the box into the living room, ensconce myself again in my father’s chair where we used to read together every Saturday morning, and begin reading.

  His undisguised intent makes me groan as if at a bad joke. “For Alexandra. I hereby pass it to you.”

  “I don’t want it!” Saying aloud for the first time what has shaped and energized so much of my adult life is an entirely self-indulgent thing to do. I’ve never suspected my father of reading somebody else’s thoughts, either telepathically or in the more normal and respectful ways most people do. But into the empty house in the middle of the night in the yellow wood I keep talking, getting louder and more emphatic. “Who do you think you are, anyway? You just keep your shit to yourself, you hear me? I’m not taking it anymore!”

  Although there’s never any doubt that I’ll turn the page, I can hardly bring myself to do it, and by the time the first page of text is revealed I’m in a cold sweat.

  Out of the corner of my eye I catch a wavy motion across the worn green carpet—the same carpet, I swear, that we all grew up on. “Fuck you, Herpie. Leave me alone.” Naturally, there’s no reply. As far as I know, talking animals are not among the oddities of this decidedly odd family.