Something in My Eye: Stories (16 page)

Can you hear me calling you? It should be perfectly clear.

On your side now. Have the wind carry your voice to me.

I've just met your colleagues, honey. Such a sad, pallid lot. All gone in nostalgic reverie. But they were helpful; they know how lonely it gets. They've directed me your way.

I see you across the stream, both of you. I'm waving from the other side. You recognize me; you do. Why would you look away? Honey angel baby sweetie darling sweetheart—my last kind words. See how baby reaches for me? It's OK, give her to me. I'll toss her up and catch her. Listen to her laugh. A laugh must be so rare in this sanctified place. Don't cry, please. You'll have a job soon, you'll be useful again. We'll have our own place, a place in the comforting flames, a little apartment. And we'll laugh together. We'll learn how. When you ask me how my day went and I ask you how your day went we'll both just laugh and laugh and laugh until the flesh falls from our bones and we'll be two skeletons in love.

 

Come on, open your eyes and see me.

A
mother and her son sit at their kitchen table. They are ruined people, both in appearance and spirit. Also, they are not financially well-off.

There was, and still might be, a brother to the son, a son to the mother. He disappeared not long ago, took the dog for a walk one bright Saturday and never came back.

We sympathize. We really do. So would he. Pity is easy for us; it's empathy that we find difficult. But we'll give it a try. We give all people one or two or possibly three chances.

It's late afternoon. The light is ugly and yellow and violating the darkness as it streams through the blinds. At least that's the mother's opinion. Everything has become awful to her: the light, the dark, the modest house in which they live, the people they encounter on a daily basis. Except of course her son, whom she still loves.

The son has not yet reached his mother's stage of evacuation. But, to be fair, though young, he already has some seedling of hatred growing in his heart. He is only nine, but has the face of an old man. It has been a difficult three months. The son doesn't know this yet, but he will have to learn to live with his face. He believes he will shed it in adulthood. He is so sweet and wrong.

They, the mother and son, channel different frequencies of pain. Neither knows exactly what the other is feeling. This is a condition invented long ago by a pervert. To each his own private horror, the pervert says. Grief will be unending and barely endurable. Lay all your troubles on you know who.

It seems unrealistic that one family should suffer so much, we think. Awful statistics, we say, random accidents. (A plan, he says. A developing plan.)

There are some woods near the house, a square mile at the end of the street. Bring on the deforested future, we say. Less places to get lost. What is a child's safety to a little lost wood?

The son has a notebook, on which he's written the facts of the case. He doesn't fully understand what he's written. He just writes what he hears, what he reads or sees on television. His mother stares blankly, angrily at the window and the light seeping through it.

I want to look for him, says the son.

Why? says the mother.

We've been letting other people look.

They have been over this many times. The son still believes that his brother can be found.

Why don't we look for him?

Where would we look?

The woods, says the son.

We've looked in the woods.

Somewhere else, then.

The world is too large.

Why do you want to forget him?

I can't forget him.

The mother is right, of course. Oh, that we could forget everything, we say.

Why don't you care? says the son.

But I do, says the mother. I'm trying to accept his absence. I hope you can, too.

But he's not gone. He's missing.

Really? Do you really believe that?

Come look for him with me, says the son.

The mother turns her face toward him. Her expression is haggard, furious. Think for a moment, she says. What do we know?

About what?

What are the facts?

Why? says the son. He looks at his mother with his poor hopeful face.

I'll help you if you answer me, she says.

OK.

Where was he last seen?

He was last seen at the trailhead.

By whom?

He was last seen by an elderly couple at the trailhead.

Our neighbors. Who are decrepit cunts.

Why would you call them that?

Tell me what they saw.

They saw him talking to a gray-haired man in a gray truck.

And?

They took down the license plate and walked away.

Decrepit cunts.

Why would you call them that?

A decrepit cunt has a keen sense of danger but not the courage to locate the source of the danger, for they are too decrepit. Hence the taking down of the license plate without actually intervening.

So he was last seen by our neighbors, an elderly couple, who are a pair of decrepit cunts.

Yes. Read me what else you have.

Our dog was found in the woods, walking alone without a leash.

And what did we do with the dog?

We put it to sleep.

And why did we do that?

Because it was a reminder of my brother.

Yes. What else do you have there?

The police were able to find the truck, because of our neighbors.

What did they find in the truck?

They found two things, says the son.

Which were?

They found a dog leash.

And whose dog did the leash belong to?

Ours.

And where is our dog?

In the ground.

Good. What else did they find?

They found something that wasn't there.

What was it?

They found that the seatbelt had been cut out.

Good. And what did police find in the dumpster behind the supermarket?

They found the seatbelt that had been cut out.

And what was special about the seatbelt?

It was soaked with blood.

Did it match your brother's blood type?

Yes.

How does this make you feel?

Scared. How does it make you feel?

Angry.

Why not scared?

I'm not scared of anything. What did the police not find?

The gray-haired man and my brother.

And why haven't they found your brother?

Because they haven't found the gray-haired man yet.

And why haven't they found the gray-haired man?

Because the police are limited?

Yes. Any other reason?

Because the gray-haired man is wily.

Yes. How does this make you feel?

Angry. Stop asking me questions.

Why?

You're making me scared.

OK.

Do you remember your sister?

Yes.

What happened to her?

She was killed by a car.

And what happened to the perpetrator?

He went to jail.

Do you remember your father?

Yes.

And what happened to him?

He died of cancer.

And what happened to the cancer?

It died with him.

Good. Do you see how these things happen?

Yes.

Do you believe your brother is dead?

No.

Why not?

Because he is still missing.

But the facts.

I know.

Do you believe that the gray-haired man is guilty?

Yes.

And what has happened to him?

Nothing.

What do we need to do?

Find my brother.

No, says the mother. What do we need to do?

I don't know.

Who do we need to find?

The gray-haired man.

Yes. Why?

I don't know.

Will he bring your brother back?

No.

Why do we need to find the gray-haired man?

Because he can tell us what he knows.

Good. But will what he knows bring your brother back?

No.

Why?

Because my brother is probably dead.

Good. Then why would we care to listen to the gray-haired man?

I don't know.

Because the gray-haired man will have interesting things to say.

Since when do we care about hearing interesting things?

We are starting today.

I don't want to.

Do we have anything else to look forward to?

Why do you keep reminding me that my brother is dead?

Because grief has made me strange.

Me too.

I'm sorry.

Are you making an excuse?

Yes. Is it a good one?

Yes.

She takes her son's head in her hands and kisses him. Do you know why I love you?

Because I'm your last one?

No.

Why then?

Because you will never die.

I hope so.

Do you still want to look for your brother?

Yes.

Get your coat, then.

 

We might have made a mistake. The world is too big and full of life to dwell here, we think. Broad parody, we shout. They don't resemble anyone we know. The mother? Sadism drives her. The son? Delusional, traumatized. Write him off. Write them both off, we say. In fact, write off the house, the neighborhood, the neighbors, the woods, the whole town, everyone is clearly complicit.

Here is a scene we would much prefer: a mother and her son sit at the breakfast table. The mother serves the son pancakes, the son eats them with gratitude. The son is getting ready for school, the mother speaks to him of the coming day. (Have compassion, he would say. Honor those beneath you with your attention. The mother is the very picture of endurance, the son innocent, incorruptible.) Fine, we say. Just get them out of the house, into the sunlight, the fresh air. Please just get them out of the house!