A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (71 page)

But, easy or not, we rely on such sentiment. To do otherwise would be to jump without hope into a black and endless abyss, falling through an all-enveloping void for all eternity. Really, what
’
s to gain from saying that the night only grows darker and that hope lies crushed under the jackboots of the wicked? What answers do we have when we arrive at the irreducible realization that there is no salvation in life, that sooner or later, despite our
best hopes and most ardent dreams, no matter how good our deeds and truest virtues, no matter how much we work toward our varied ideals of immortality, inevitably the seas will boil, evil will run roughshod over the earth, and the planet will be left a playground in ruins, fit only for cockroaches and vermin.

There is a saying favored by clergymen and aging ballplayers: Pray for rain. But why pray for rain when it
’
s raining hot, poisoned blood?

And then, a few days later, we looked again at it, hoped it didn
’
t sound glib, callous—Zev wrote it and he was still so young—because Lance had just came back from New York, from all the running around, he and Skye, looking for money, any sign at all. We wanted to know how everything went—it was all academic by now but we were curious anyway, morbidly maybe— wanted to hear funny rejection stories, tales of indifference—and I don
’
t remember why we were all there in the office, all at once in the middle of the day, but Lance came in and dropped his backpack on his chair, and sat down, slumped in his chair. Then he stood up. He paced for a minute. He stood by the filing cabinet, next to Marny
’
s desk. He had a look on his face, an almost-smiling look, his mouth sort of smiling but also kind of quivering, his eyes focusing on something small on the floor between us. He had his hand in front of his mouth, to hide whatever his mouth was doing.
Was he smiling?
He was smiling. His head was tilted. Something was funny. This was going to be good.

“
Skye died.
”

“
What?
”
someone said.

“
She
died
”
he said.

“
What do you mean? Who?
”
We were all talking at him.

“
She
died.
”

“
Who?
”

“
Skye.
”

“
No.
”

“
Fuck you, dickhead. Why is that funny?
”

“
He
’
s serious. Are you serious?
”
“
That
’
s not funny.
”
“
No, listen, she
died.
She
died
”
“
No.
”

“
What does that mean?
”
“
How?
”

“
It was a virus and it attacked her heart. She was there just for a few days. They couldn
’
t—
“
“
No.
”

“
Holy shit.
”
“
Jesus.
”
“
No.
”

Marny and I drove out, just over the Golden Gate, not far from where you have to turn up to get to Black Sands, to get a picture for the last issue
’
s last page. We wanted something that would articulate everything, one image, and had chosen the tunnel on Route 1 that leads to Sausalito, carved through the mohair Headlands. It was a simple tunnel, a half-circle, dark, its end not visible, with the entrance framed by a thin rainbow painted on long ago. We had parked and then walked along the highway, and Marny had watched for cars while I stood in the highway
’
s middle lane and took the picture, which in the end didn
’
t really come out all that great, the rainbow faded and unclear, the tunnel not dark enough.

But that was it, the final image. It was either that or the letter Paul had opened a few days before, as we were already packing up, from Ed McMahon. In large bold black type:

MIGHT MAGAZINE

HAS DEFINITELY WON

FROM $1,000,000.00 TO

$11,000,000.00 cash!

We dedicated the issue to her, to Skye, of course. Our sad little gesture. Man, we said, you should have seen Skye. Actually, you still can. Go rent that movie,
Dangerous Minds.
She
’
s there, walking around, talking. She didn
’
t write the lines she said, and was probably only nineteen or twenty at the time, but there she is, forever, walking and talking, snapping gum. Oh she was something.

The walk down to Black Sands is long, steep, but the view, all wildflowers and ocean, is astounding. As Toph and I stomp down, men are walking up, in pairs, sweating, stopping to rest—the walk up is a thousand times what it is going down. As we walk down together I become conscious of our proximity, mine and Toph
’
s, and am preoccupied with making sure no one gets the wrong idea. He
’
s almost as tall as me now, and has that boy-toy look that with us together, at this beach in particular, could easily be taken as a NAMBLA kind of thing, and if the wrong person saw us, surely they would report us, and then the child welfare people would come, and then he
’
d be in a foster home, and I
’
d have to bust him out—we
’
d be fugitives, underground, and the food would be terrible—

It feels like some place very far away, this beach. The patrons of Black Sands are primarily naked gay men, some straight naked men, some straight naked women, with the rest a mixture of clothed people like us, and the occasional Chinese fisherman. We drop our stuff in the middle, where the families, when they dare come down, set up and sit. We take off our shoes and shirts, scan the beach, left and right. Toph has an idea.

“
You know what I think?
”

“
Yes. No.
”

“
I think everyone should be able, just once, to make an inanimate object come to life and be his pal.
”

I have to pause. Should he be encouraged?

“
Like what?
”
I ask, nervously.

“
Like an orange.
”

He scratches his chin, something he actually does when thinking these kinds of thoughts.

“
Or a hammer.
”

John was slithering, crawling, breaking up. He was in rehab, then left and for a while was living in Santa Cruz with a woman, forty-five at least, who he met in NA. I had stopped keeping track, did not ask why he was in NA in the first place, was not aware that he had a problem that would necessitate NA—it was accelerating with him, he was trying to do all the problems he could do in the shortest possible amount of time. I wondered if that was the plan, some sort of experiment or performance art—if it was I would have respected that, that would have been cool but it was not, actually, that way, that calculated. We went to see a counselor, I brought him in after a while, talking to us, she called me an
“
enabler,
”
and so we left that counselor and he slept on the couch and then he was better— He would disappear for weeks, then resurface, calling from a library, from Oregon, had run through everything he had inherited, now needed two hundred dollars for the room he
’
d been living in,
the Red Roof people were losing their fucking shit
—and then, finally, after getting punched in the head one night at the Covered Wagon by a guy he knew, he wanted to go back into rehab.

Meredith and I split the cost of a private place, three weeks
’
worth, because he had no insurance, and would not go into the county one, if he had to go into the county one he might do something—he would not be able to handle that kind of shit, man— and so a few days before the private place I picked him up, from
some place in the Oakland hills, the house of another woman he was seeing, two kids in the window—

“
Dude, thank you so much for putting up the money. I really want to tell you how much I appreciate that. It makes all the difference in the world. The county place was full of druggies and hookers. I could not handle that, I swear, would not have made it.
”

I open the window.

I have nothing to say to him.

“
There
’
s a part of me,
”
I say,
“
that wants to let you out of the car right now, on the fucking bridge.
”

A minute or so of silence.

I turn up the radio.

“
Then let me out.
”

“
I want to let you out, asshole/
’

“
Then let me out.
”

“
I mean, are you trying to break some record? Like, right now, you
’
re sitting here, seemingly normal, with your hands in your lap and everything—but then, when do you put on the freak suit? When does that happen? I mean—
“

He is rhythmically clicking and unclicking the knob to the glove compartment.

“
Don
’
t.
”

He stops.

“
I mean, why can
’
t you just fucking...
”
I want to say
chill.
But that would sound wrong.

“
...chill? Why can
’
t you just fucking chill?
”

He
’
s with the glove compartment again.

“
Stop it.
”

He stops.

“
I mean, all this is getting so fucking boring.
”

“
It
’
s really fucking boring. For a little while it was kind of
fun, having you do all this made-for-TV shit, but not anymore. It
’
s been boring for a while now.
”

“
Sorry dude. Sorry I bore you.
”

“
You do. All this unbelievable whining, uncertainty, the wallowing—
“

“
Please. Look who
’
s talking. You
’
re one to talk about dwelling on this shit, your family shit. You
’
re the one who—
“

“
We
’
re not talking about me.
”

“
Yes we are, of course we are. We always are. In one way or another, we always are. Isn
’
t that obvious?
”

“
Listen, fuck you. I didn
’
t need to come out here.
”

“
Then you shouldn
’
t have.
”

“
I
’
m going to toss you out that fucking window.
”

“
Then do it. Do it.
”

“
I should.
”

“
I mean, how much do you really care about me, outside of my usefulness as some kind of cautionary tale, a stand-in for someone else, for your dad, for these people who disappoint you—
“

“
You are so like him.
”

“
Fuck you. I am not him.
”

“
But you are.
”

“
Let me out.
”

“
No.
”

“
I
’
m not this. I can
’
t be reduced to this.
”

“
You did it yourself.
”

“
I am more than this.
”

“
Are you?
”

“
I cannot be used to get back at your dad. Your dad is not a lesson. I am not a lesson. You are not a teacher.
”