Complete Short Fiction, page 97
Suddenly, white light floods into your eyes. Recovering, you see the boy that you were, staring at you from the room that you loved, and you remember what he feels but doesn’t understand yet. You recall having seen what he sees, what he once saw for three nights, as you gaze into that bedroom where the future is still a fabulous country, waiting to be entered. All times are woven together, so why shouldn’t they cast something of themselves forward and backward now and then?
As you look into the boy’s sleepy eyes, you realize that these moments have been waiting for both of you all your lives, that two pieces of time are being drawn toward each other by the gravity of remembrance, and there is nothing you can do about the coming collision.
The sea becomes very still suddenly, and you watch the boy reach into the water as if into a mirror, and draw his hand back, surprised that it is not wet. He repeats the action and is startled as some ghostly water spills onto his bed, and you realize with dismay piled on hopelessness that it was your yearning for the shelter of the past that would now destroy it. You needed to be back in that room on a twelve-year-old’s Friday night, looking forward to Saturday morning, when you would go biking and later stop at the park to watch girls playing under the big oak tree, not quite sure why they were so pleasant to look at, feeling the play of impulses within yourself. You needed that past as you had never needed your present or future, but you had to get on the treadmill of killing to realize how little you had to give to anything or anyone.
Think? your fogged brain commands. Your need will destroy the past unless you act. Will the boy’s death end your pain? Will you still be here if the past is changed?
But what can you do? What can a dying man do for anyone?
You try to pull down the bridge between the boy in the bedroom and the man in the water by denying your need for the past’s islands of happiness, but the two moments draw even closer toward dissolution. The boy crawls back on the bed, astonished by the water that is now threatening to burst across time, and suddenly you know what you must do.
You listen to the unfeeling whisper of the sea, and slowly your right hand loosens its grip on your bleeding left arm. You watch the hand move away as if it belongs to someone else, and see your bleeding resume its gentle flow into the black water.
The boy and the bedroom slip away, and you close your eyes, relieved that the link seems to be weakening. Your past and present are safe, but you have severed your future. There’s no helping that. You have to be alive for the bridge to stand.
And for a few moments it continues to stand, and you are that boy staring at the wall in fear and wonder, opening and closing your eyes, fleeing back and forth between the bedroom and the cold darkness of futurity, where the sea drinks your blood and the blackness crowds the light from your eyes.
Afternoon Ghost
It was twelve o’clock. The secretaries were chatting and putting their desk in order. Michael Brown leaned across his desk toward the intercom. “Miss Manley, would you make a reservation at the Townshend Club for me? I think they can find me a table. Tell them I’m confirming a previous reservation.”
Miss Manley did not answer. He got up and walked out to her desk and said, “Miss Manley.” No response. “Miss Manley!”
She stared at him, took off her glasses, and laid them on her desk.
“Miss Manley, are you deaf and blind? Answer me!”
She covered her typewriter and called to her cosecretary. “Are you ready? Come on, it’s getting chilly in here.”
“Is this a joke or something?” he shouted as the secretaries left the room. “Damn you all, come back here . . . doesn’t anyone hear me?”
He walked back into his office, feeling frustrated and impotent and angry. Always a nothing, a nobody, even when he had money and an office, and a little authority.
He stopped suddenly and stared at his desk. He saw his own body slouched over it, arms hanging over the front side; in a moment, it seemed, it would fall off the edge. Even as he watched it, the body fell gently to the thick green carpet.
He backed away from the desk until he was up against the wall next to the door. Then he was inside the wall. He screamed. He pushed vigorously until he floated back into the office. But he held back the next scream as he hovered over his body while rubbing his immaterial hands together.
“Help . . .” he whispered. “Someone please help me.” He floated out the window and down to the pavement, but no one noticed Michael Brown. Very slowly he floated upright, a pale, paper kite. He tried to compose himself; if he did not get excited, he could imitate normal walking.
He walked up and down streets and avenues and alleys. He walked through people and building and eventually into the ladies’ room of the Club Risque. He sat down on a pink couch and looked into an empty mirror.
Of course I can’t see myself, he thought. I’m a . . . ghost. His fear seemed to melt away. It was as if the weight of the world had been removed from his shoulders. He felt light-headed and laughed and danced around the room. He was a ghost . . . he was free . . . he would live forever. Oblivious to his presence, a halfnude dancer continued to put on her makeup in front of a large illuminated mirror. Michael stopped and touched her shoulder. He concentrated. And after a while he could feel. He ran his hands down her back; it was tight and smooth, and he imagined he could feel some of the warmth.
Now, he thought, no one can stop me. He was a man who could do as he pleased.
He sang three bars of “Stout Hearted Men.”
He laughed as loud as he could and floated up over the sink.
There was an eternity of pleasure ahead . . . and it was all free.
Later he followed her home. He went into her bedroom and watched. She turned on the lamp by her double bed. She unzipped the back of her dress deftly. She kicked off both shoes, sat down on the bed, then lifted her leg to remove her stockings. She removed her bra and panties. She was all his now.
He hovered over the bed and crossed his legs in the air. He watched.
Her hair touched the pillow; her leg was bent at the knee and her face was in profile. She turned completely onto her back and her large eyes were wide open. She made no move to pull up the covers. Michael felt slightly embarrassed. He looked into her eyes for a long time, until she closed them. Then very slowly he floated down on top of her. He pushed one hand under her brown hair, and he circled her waist with the other. He concentrated, until he could feel her warm breath and skin.
He rested on her, waiting for his excitement to quicken, for the girl to come completely alive in his 302 arms. But she only shivered and reached through him for the covers, which she pulled up to her neck.
And he realized that once again he couldn’t do it. Even now when it didn’t matter, when no one could be hurt, his past held him tightly and wouldn’t forgive him. The thought of sin and transgression was too great. That was why he had never been able to do it.
Something tugged at his arm, but he couldn’t see it.
There was a blinding flash of light, and he tumbled into what felt like a pile of sand. He opened his eyes. A cloud of dust floated around him, reflecting the golden sunlight into his eyes. He stood up and tried to walk.
He took two steps, and a voice said, “It’s about time.”
A squat little man sat at a huge desk in the middle of a desert. He thumbed through the lined yellow pages of his ledger in boredom. “Well, come over here! I have an appointment in five minutes. So tell me your story. You now have four minutes.”
Michael Brown tried to speak but couldn’t.
“Look, just relax,” the man said. “Give me your qualifications and we can both get out of here . . . I’m just as hot as you are, but the new rule is that we can’t make anyone comfortable until they pass the test.”
“The test?” Michael finally managed to say. “Where am I . . .?”
“Mr. Brown,” the little man said. “You are in heaven.”
“This is heaven?”
“Well . . . this is where it begins. It’s much nicer inside. This is sort of the exam room. They don’t want people seeing Heaven and then getting excited over something they might not qualify for.” The man turned a page in the ledger. “You don’t seem to be in such good shape. You just haven’t done anything really worthwhile. Nothing to speak of. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying you were bad, we don’t like to say that about anyone, but your records are sort of well, blah, you know.”
“I was a very successful businessman and . . .”
“No, please don’t go through all that. I’ve heard the same spiel a hundred and forty-five times today, and I couldn’t listen to it again. Just tell me something of value that you’ve accomplished. Anything at all. We’re agreeable.”
“Well, I can’t remember specific incidents,” Michael said. “You should have them in your book. But I went to church—”
“Don’t even start with the church business . . . you know why you went to church. Just tell me what there is of value in you. Tell me about a good deed. Surely you can think of something.”
“Maybe you could ask my brother, he should be up here somewhere. He can tell you about me.”
The man stifled a yawn. “He said you were okay, but he couldn’t come up with anything either. You’d better hurry, we’re running out of time.”
Everything has happened so fast, Michael thought. I need time to think things over.
“You’re a problem,” the man said. “I just don’t quite know where to fit you in. Look, walk that way, west, toward the large red dune, and see what happens. I’m only a clerk . . .”
The man and his desk disappeared.
Michael walked, but he didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. The dune seemed to be as far away as when he’d started. He turned to retrace his steps back to heaven when he saw the clerk. He looked almost like the little man he had met before, except his hair was thicker and he was smiling. And his desk was not as big.
“Were you going back? That just isn’t done, you know.”
“I got lost. Am I supposed to see you?”
“I’m the man.”
“Am I still in heaven?” Michael asked. He looked around, trying to discover some clue to where he was. But there was only desert as far as he could see . . . and the swirling dust-devils of sand.
“No, this is hell. It’s sort of a border between domains. The main part of hell starts beyond the third dune there.”
“But this looks the same as—”
“As heaven?” the clerk said. “Yes, it’s almost the same thing, except we take the bad and they take the good. I suppose it depends upon which ethical code you commit yourself to. It’s just division of labor. Well, let’s get on with it. It’s much too hot out here.”
“Isn’t hell supposed to be hot?”
“I just told you it’s about the same thing as over there.” The clerk pointed toward the boundary of heaven. “You don’t really think that heaven is hot, so why should hell be hot? That’s the propaganda they teach you down there. It’s revolting. Look, no more questions until later. Let’s see if we can use you.” He glanced at his ledger. “Now tell me what you’ve done.”
“You mean the bad things?”
“Yes, bad things . . . anything from theft to murder. And intention is important, too.” He paused, concentrating on a page in the ledger. “You know, this book doesn’t say much about you. In fact, it says almost nothing. There must be something I can enter into the book on your behalf.”
Michael was embarrassed, but he would have to tell the man about what he had done to the nude dancer before he had been summoned away from the world. After all, he couldn’t stay in limbo forever, walking back and forth across this endless desert. Hell was better than being nowhere. “I made . . . I watched a nude dancer while she was . . .”
“That doesn’t count,” the clerk said. “You weren’t alive, remember? All the returns are already in. Everyone gets time to see their family or friends before they leave. You can do anything you want with the time, but it just doesn’t count for anything. Anyway, I wouldn’t be proud of it if I were you. You made a fool of yourself, and you didn’t even finish the job. No, that’s no good.”
Michael became even more nervous. “I did a lot of underhanded things in business—”
The clerk closed the ledger with a thud. “You did what an average businessman would do. There was no malice involved. You never really caused any major problems for anyone, even your so-called enemies.”
Michael had to think fast. “I had a girl when I was. . . .”
The clerk shook his head scornfully. “Your time is up and quite frankly I don’t know what to do with you. You don’t seem to be able to produce any substantial evidence on your own behalf. Your potential for malice and evil was always diluted. You weren’t much of an individual, simply a bundle of conformities. Every time you were about to do something that we would consider worthwhile, you stopped because you were afraid of what people would think. You just pitter-patted. It’s terrible that so much of this is going on in the world today. We never had this much trouble, not even with the Romans.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Michael said. “What are you going to do with me?”
“Wait here until I return. I’m afraid this is going to involve a conference between both sides . . . and that usually means trouble.” Then the man and his desk disappeared.
They have to take me, Michael thought. I have to be somewhere.
The clerk and his desk appeared as suddenly as they had disappeared. “I had a talk with the other side and we came to a decision,” the clerk said. He was perspiring heavily. “Neither side can take you on. To coin a phrase, you haven’t lived yet. So . . . you’re going back.”
“You mean I get another chance?”
“That’s it,” the clerk said. “Try again. Go out and murder someone, or something.” Thunder suddenly rolled across the sunny sky. “Sorry, forget that. Remember, we have nothing to do with you once you return to earth. What you do there will be entirely up to you.”
The desert faded away.
Michael found himself standing in a parking lot. He knew this place, the street, the stores, the people. He took a long deep breath. He was alive! He walked jauntily out of the parking lot. He nodded and beamed at perfect strangers, looked in shop windows, enjoyed the rush hour hustle and bustle of the streets . . . all the familiar sights and sounds and smells that he had never really appreciated before.
He was going to make something of his life now.
And he had a whole lifetime to do it.
He passed a corner candy store and on impulse decided to stop in for a candy bar. Life was sweet. Why not enjoy it? Michael picked up a Hershey’s bar from a shelf and reached into his pocket for change. But he found nothing but his handkerchief and keys. He looked around. The proprietor was not paying any attention to Michael; he was making up a chocolate egg cream for a customer.
Impulsively, Michael put the candy bar into his coat pocket. His palms were sweaty and he was shaking and his heart seemed to be fluttering in his throat. As he left the store, he repressed the urge to run. He walked down the block and turned a corner.
He was safe. Finally, he had done something . . . and it was easy. He felt wonderful. He felt like a kid again, and this was only the beginning. . . .
Michael started to cross the street. But he was paying more attention to opening his candy bar than to the traffic.
He heard a horn blaring as a station wagon hit him. His head struck the pavement, and the world and all its opportunities disappeared.
There was a different man at the desk this time. Michael did not recognize him.
“Welcome back,” the man said. “The big boys on both sides had a feeling there would be a lot of fellows like you, so we opened this middle-of-the-road office. It’s for those who don’t have the qualifications to go to heaven or hell.”
“Look, I didn’t have time to do anything more than steal a candy bar,” Michael said, waving the sticky wrapper before the clerk. “Is that good enough?”
“Walk west,” said the clerk. “Let them make the decision.”
In a few minutes Michael stood in front of the hell desk again. The clerk carefully examined the Hershey’s bar wrapper. “Well, you did steal . . . technically. But it’s nothing to write home about.”
“I couldn’t help it if a car hit me by accident,” Michael said. “I was just getting started.”
“Well, I’ll admit it wasn’t fair to you. You were nipped in the bud, right at the start of a promising career. Of course we’re flattered that you chose our side. Let me talk to the old man and see what he thinks.”
Satan brushed the sand from his sports jacket. He was tall and had a receeding hairline, a large nose, and an angular face. He stood dramatically in front of the desk and looked at Michael. “I understand your problem. Nasty business. “But this”—he pointed to the candy wrapper on the desk “—is not enough to get you into hell. It’s a question of pride . . . and ethics. It’s a shame we can’t send you down again, but all this second chance business really louses up the natural laws.”
“You mean I can’t go back?” Michael said. “What’s going to happen to me, then?”
“You’ve had an unlucky break,” Satan said, sitting on the desk. “It’s really a bureaucratic tangle now. You can’t go back down and you can’t come in here or . . . there.” He gestured toward heaven. “So you’ll just have to stay here.”
“In the desert? Forever?” Michael was dumbfounded. “I can’t stay here. I’ll go crazy. This isn’t fair.” Michael started to cry. What did he do to deserve this?
“Please stop crying,” Satan said, looking agitated. “I suppose the principle has been violated, and that’s what counts. And the intent was there on your part. . . .” The clerk behind the desk was nodding vigorously.
