Far Far Away (28 page)

They were quiet for a second or two. Then Mr. Johnson said, “Why didn’t you give the answer?”

“I don’t know that, either. I just couldn’t. I just knew it was …”

“Wrong?” Jeremy’s father said quietly.

“I guess so, yeah.” He paused a second. “And what I was trying to tell you guys that day is true. I got all those other questions because of a voice in my head, so it shouldn’t have bothered me if a voice came to me outside my head. But it did. I knew it was wrong. And once I knew that was wrong, I knew using the voice in my head was wrong, too.”

So. This was what had built the wall between Jeremy and me. He felt as if we had deceived, that I had coaxed him into deceiving. Well, I did coax him, yes, but I did not think of it as deceiving. Still, that he did … this caused me deep shame. It is true that we in the
Zwischenraum
do not feel heat or cold. Shame is another matter.

Jeremy’s father put down his dishrag. “Look, Jeremy, I don’t know about the answers coming from the voice in your head, because I just believe that if you hear a voice in there, it’s part of you, which isn’t cheating.” He took a deep breath. “But I think you were right about the outside voice. I think you were right not to use that voice.” He was already serious; now he grew even more so. “I’m real proud you didn’t use it.” His face stiffened. “More proud than if you’d won all that money.”

His face twisted, and I believe Mr. Johnson might have shed a tear, but he broke the tension by roughly rubbing Jeremy’s head
with his knuckled hand. “I swear,” he said. “When they made you, they broke the mold.”

Jeremy produced a bittersweet smile. “ ’Course if I’d won the money, we wouldn’t be losing the bookstore in a few weeks.”

After they finished the dishes, Jeremy’s father asked if he wanted to walk down to the Superette with him and Jenny. “We’re going to split an ice cream sandwich.” He grinned. “She always gives me the big half.”

“Naw, it’s okay.” Jeremy’s gaze drifted. “Running into people …”

He did not need to finish the sentence.

Jeremy wandered out to the alley and sat on a box downwind from the sulfurous vapors wafting from the hot springs. He rubbed his temple and said, “You there?”

I am
.

He stared off toward the springs. “Well, after we move, that’s one thing I won’t miss—the rotten-egg smell.”

But, truly, this seemed just another way of indicating everything he would miss.

Jeremy
, I said,
I made a mistake prodding you to go on. I got carried away
.

“It’s okay. I think if we actually had won, I would’ve felt so slimy about it that it would’ve been even worse.”

But your father was right about this, Jeremy. You are hearing my voice at this very moment because of your peculiar ability to listen. Those answers came to you through your own natural, uncommon talents
.

Jeremy did not speak.

You do not believe me, then?

“I don’t know. If you look at it like that, then, sure, I believe you. But if you look at it from the point of view of another contestant who goes into that booth without a ghost-buddy who gives him all the answers, well, then, it might be a little different.”

Not quite all the answers
.

He allowed a small laugh. “Yeah. We were skunked by the Walt Disney version.” Several quiet seconds passed. “It’s okay. The truth is, in the back of my mind, I had the idea that if I did really well, the town would maybe feel different about me, but I’m not even sure that’s true.” He stared off. “The only thing that really bothers me is losing the bookstore. I think my grandfather would be disappointed that I …”

He could not go on.

I will tell you this: his silence made the singing of crickets seem mournful.

After a time, I heard the sound of moving feet and saw the small, dark profile of someone approaching along the alleyway. I moved forward, in fear that it was Deputy McRaven, but it was not.

“Jeremy? Is that you?”

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Bailey,” Jeremy said. I believe he, too, was relieved that it was only this kind small woman.

Mrs. Bailey looked around. An empty canvas bag hung over
her arm. “Is there someone else here then, dearie? I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

“Nope, it’s just me. Sometimes I talk to myself, is all.”

“Me too,” Mrs. Bailey said, and laughed softly. “All the time, in fact.” After a moment or two, she went on. “I was there for the show.”

“You were?”

“Mmm. Way in the back. I wasna’ planning to go, but when I heard the women in town saying it was all agreed that no one would go, well, I thought I hadna’ agreed on anything at all and I went right home to consult my bus schedule.” She gave another soft laugh and shook her head. “But, my, weren’t you something? Some of those questions were so difficult, and then when you answered them all just as easy as you please, I could’ve collapsed in astonishment.”

Jeremy nodded and smiled. “Yeah, well …”

“When will they play the show, then?”

“I don’t know for sure. They’re supposed to let me know, but the truth is, once you lose, you sort of stop existing for them.”

She nodded, and it again fell quiet except for the melancholy chorus of crickets.

Jeremy said, “So have you heard from Frank?”

“Oh, yes. He writes a postcard every little bit.” They again fell quiet, and Mrs. Bailey said, “Well, all righty, then. I’m just out for my evening stroll.”

“Night, Mrs. Bailey. Thanks for going to the show.”

“Wouldna’ missed it.” She shook her head. “Really, this town. Sometimes I just don’t …”

She turned to go. Jeremy conspicuously stood and again
said good night before going indoors. I knew why he did this. He did not want her to think he was watching when she stopped at the back door of the café to see if Elbow Adkins had any leftover portions of food he might send home with her, as he often did.

The moon had risen. Jeremy climbed up to the attic but did not turn on the light. He just lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Presently, he said, “You still here?”

Yes
.

“Can I ask you about something?”

Of course
.

“I want you to tell me about your nephew.”

Oh. How quickly these words threw open the door to that dark time. At once, I saw again the
Bübchen
gasping for air. I did not speak.

After a few moments, Jeremy said, “I know you don’t want to, but it’s kind of like one of the tales where there’s a box you’re not supposed to open, but you know you have to, because until you do, you won’t have the complete picture.”

But that was just it. I wanted the memories of my dear nephew locked in the heaviest chest and dropped to the darkest depths of the remotest ocean, because bringing them out for observation would only make the pain fresh again.

I said nothing.

“It’s okay,” Jeremy said quietly, because, truly, he was nothing if not kind.

But I recalled how he had told me his darkest chapters—his abandonment by his mother, the death of his grandfather, the arrival of the obituary from Canada—and now he had asked the same of me.

A minute of silence passed, and then another.

At last, I closed my ancient eyes and gathered myself.
I had a nephew
, I began.
Wilhelm’s son. Given the name Jacob by Wilhelm and Dortchen to honor me. But it was not just that he carried my name that endeared him to me. He was only four years old but like a little man. He would come into our study and take my hand. “Ich möchte dir etwas zeigen, Onkel,” he would say. I have something to show you, Uncle. If I was working, no one, nothing could take me away from my studies, but when this boy took my hand, I pushed back from my desk and followed him down the stairs and out of the house to the fresh berries he had found, or the nest filled with speckled eggs, or the smooth stone shaped like a heart. He could have brought these treasures inside, presented them at my desk, but that was not his way. He led me out of doors and would watch me looking at whatever he had found, as if it could not be a treasure until I had called it one. “Yes,” I would say. “Today you have certainly shown me something.” Oh, he would beam
.

And then … a sickness. The color draining little by little from his cheeks, his limbs thinning to matchsticks. The Mediziner coming, one after another, and departing, one after another. But this boy, this little man, he would try to smile even as his eyes bulged from his face. He never complained. In his sleep, he would sometimes cry out for his mother or father or for his uncle Jacob, but he never complained
.

The final two days I did not leave his side. I sat through the night. Are you there, Uncle? he would say, and I would squeeze his hand and say, Yes, my little man, I am here
.

I stopped. I could not go further.

After a long silence, Jeremy said in a quiet voice, “What did you do when your nephew died?”

I died a kind of death. My heart shrank and blackened and I died. Though I did not quite know it at the time. But of course I could not tell Jeremy this.
I went on
, I said.
My life had changed and I had changed, but I went on
.

Another silence. Through the attic window, the crickets could still be heard.

Jeremy said, “How long do you think you’ll stay here, Jacob?”

Here with you, or here in the Zwischenraum?

“I don’t know. Both, I guess.”

Of course I wished to be free of the
Zwischenraum
, but my role here was to keep Jeremy safe, to see him off to university. Jeremy knew this—it did not need repeating. So I merely said,
I think I will stay on for some little while, Jeremy
.

“But until when, exactly?”

“Until you are safe” was the thought that flew to my mind. But I tried a small joke instead.
Until I am sure you will live happily ever after
.

He snickered. “If that’s what it’ll take, you could be here forever.”

Outside, the calm call of an owl—
hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo
.

“Jacob?”

Yes?

“I know sometimes I take you for granted, or get tired of you riding me about studying, but …” His voice trailed away. “I like knowing you’re around and that you … I don’t know … watch out for me and more or less take me, you know,
as is
.”

I did not speak, but I was moved.

After a few moments, he said, “We never had a dog because my father is allergic to them, but I always wanted one because
dogs are there when you leave and there when you come home and they’re always happy to see you no matter how bad you might’ve screwed up during the day.”

This strange comparison lightened the mood.
Mein Gott!
I said laughing.
I might be replaced by a dog?

Jeremy chuckled, too, and this had a gladdening effect on me. “Well,” he said, “it’s true a dog can’t talk. But then again a dog can’t say, ‘Your stutties, Jeremy. Your stutties, your stutties, your stutties.’ ”

His replication of my accent was quite good. I stifled my laugh and kept very still.

“Jacob?” he said. “You here?”

I am licking my wounds. Much as a dog might do
.

Jeremy gave this a small laugh and pulled the quilt to his chin.

“Good night, Jacob,” he said, and I said,
Good night, Jeremy, and sweet repose
.

From my belfry perch I watched the deep night settle over the village and wrap it in sleep. Deputy McRaven’s patrol car prowled the streets; a mockingbird in search of a mate sent out his strange, varied calls; and a masked raccoon turned over a trash can, receded, and when it was quiet again, returned to root for food. And then, after midnight, the mockingbird settled into a gentler song and, soon, no song at all.

When my nephew passed beyond, Wilhelm comforted himself that a child in his innocence would be delivered speedily to heaven, and there be given an honored place. “In his small, simple throne,” Wilhelm said, and I said, “With secret compartments for his bird’s nests and smooth stones.” Wilhelm believed this. He had to believe this. I, too, repeated this conception to myself again and again, trying harder and harder to believe it. But a Creator who takes a child so small, so kind, so tender? What can be made of that? The tales we collected are not merciful. Villains are boiled in snake-filled oil, wicked
Stiefmütter
—stepmothers—are made to dance into death in molten-hot shoes, and on and on. The tales are full of terrible punishments, yes, but they follow just cause. Goodness is rewarded; evil is not. The generous simpleton finds more happiness and coin than the greedy king. So why not mercy and justice to a sweet youth from an omnipotent and benevolent Creator? There are only three answers. He is not omnipotent, or he is not benevolent, or—the dreariest possibility of all—he is inattentive. What if that was what happened to my nephew? That God’s gaze had merely strayed elsewhere?