A Home At The End Of The World Part 32

I pa.s.s through a moment of panic. I know Clare and Rebecca aren't coming back. I'd have said something before they left but I couldn't risk it-what if Jonathan had decided to go along? I can't let the house break up. It's taken too long to build. Jonathan and I belong here, together. Clare has taken Rebecca to the world of the living-its noise and surprises, its risk of disappointment. She's probably right to have done that. It's where Rebecca should be. We here are in the other world, a quieter place, more p.r.o.ne to forgiveness. I followed my brother into this world and I've never left it, not really.

I have work to do. I have a roof to fix.

The panic pa.s.ses.

Rebecca will be back someday, and the house will be waiting for her. It's hers. It isn't much-a termite-gnawed frame building remade in small pieces, with the work of inexperienced hands. It isn't much but it stands now and will still stand when she's twenty. Now, right now, I can see her. It's as clear as a window opened onto the future. What I see is a woman with light brown hair, no beauty by the world's standards but the owner of a sly grace and a steadfast, unapologetic way of filling her skin. I can see her come to stand on the porch of a house she's inherited. A house she never asked for, a house she can't quite think what to do with. I can see her there, standing in a winter coat, breathing bright steam into the brilliant air. That's all I see. It's not a significant vision. But I see her with surprising clarity. I see her boots on the floorboards, and the winter crackle of her hair. I see the way her jaw cleaves the frigid light as she stands before this unwanted gift. I touch my own jaw. I kneel there, on the roof, feeling the plain creaturely jut of my lower skull. Time is pa.s.sing, and I get to work. The hammer makes a metallic, steady kind of music that shivers up and down the framework of this house. I hammer one shingle into place. I hammer another.

Late that night, Jonathan wakes me by touching my hair. I open my eyes and see his face, bright in the bedroom darkness, so close his breathing tickles my cheek. He puts a finger to his lips, and beckons. I follow him out into the hall. The dots on his boxer shorts swim in the darkness. He is wearing only the shorts; I am in Jockeys and an undershirt. He beckons again and I follow him downstairs. Shadows cling to the complications of his back.

In the living room he says, "Sorry to wake you up like this. But there's a job I need your help with."

I ask what kind of job needs doing at midnight. By way of answering, he picks an object up off the table beside the sofa. I take a moment to focus-it's the box with Ned's ashes in it. Holding the box in both hands, he goes to the front door.

"Come on," he says.

We walk out onto the porch and stop at the rail, looking into the deep black like two pa.s.sengers on an ocean liner. On moonless nights this house could be afloat; it could be sailing through s.p.a.ce. All that offers itself from the surrounding night is a starfield and the restlessness of trees.

Jonathan says, "I've changed my mind about waiting to scatter these. It's suddenly occurred to me that this is as good a place as any."

"You mean you want to drop Ned's ashes now? Right here?"

"Mm-hm. I want us both to do it."

"Um, don't you think Alice would want to be here, too? I mean, shouldn't we have some kind of ceremony?"

"Nope. Mom will be glad to hear I've taken care of it. She's not much for ceremonies these days."

"Well," I say.

"Let's go." He steps down off the porch, and I go with him. Walking onto the gra.s.s is like stepping off into s.p.a.ce proper. I move with a light-headed, s.p.a.ce-walk feeling.

"Jon," I say. "Jonny, maybe we should wait to do this. I mean, don't you think you'll be sorry you didn't plan something?"

"If you don't want to, I'll do it myself," he says. He walks several paces toward the road, which is a dull silver stain on the darkness. Tree frogs put out their clicks and groans. The Seven Sisters pulse overhead in a small cl.u.s.tered storm of stars. I follow him. As we cross the road I am reminded of myself in childhood, following my brother into the cemetery to celebrate our heroic future together. Jonathan moves with a determination that is both ritualistic and slightly crazed. He is wearing only those polka-dot boxers as galaxies explode overhead.

An empty alfalfa field stretches beyond the road. Alfalfa brushes and sighs against our bare legs. Although I know from daylight that this field ends in brush and an abandoned shed, all I can see at this moment is an ocean of alfalfa. As we walk Jonathan says, "I just realized how ludicrous it is to hold on to my father's ashes until I find some sort of perfect home for them. I've decided this is a perfect place. This field right here. I don't even know who owns it, do you?"

"No."

"Oh, Bobby. I wanted to be part of something that wasn't dying."

"You are."

"No I'm not. I thought I was, but really, I'm not."

"Jon," I say. "Jonny."

He waits, but I can't tell him. I can't tell him what I know-we both have devotions outside the world of the living. It's what separates us from Clare, and from other people. It's what's held us together as the ordinary run of circ.u.mstance has said we should grow up and part.

After a while he says, "So I think it's time to get rid of these. Right now. Here. This seems like a good enough spot."

We are so far into the field that the darkness has closed behind us, blotting out the road and house. All we can see is alfalfa. Crickets make their racket and mosquitoes swarm around our heads, unable to believe their luck. We stand there in a starry, buzzing darkness complete as the end of the world.

"The lid's a little tricky," he says. "Just a minute. There."

He sets the box on the ground. "This is hard to believe," he says. "My father used to carry me on his shoulders. He once tickled me until I peed in my pants. I still remember how bad he felt. And embarra.s.sed. And a little indignant."

"Do you want to, like, say a few words?" I ask.

"Oh, I guess I've already said them. Listen, will you reach in at the same time I do?"

"Okay. If you want me to."

We both bend over. "I'm going to count to three," he says. "One, two, three."

We reach in. There's a plastic bag inside the box, and we work our hands through the plastic. Ned's ashes have a velvet, suety feel. They are studded with chips of bone. When we touch them, Jonathan draws in a breath.

"Oh," he says. "Okay. I think that was the worst part. Have you got some?"

"Uh-huh."

We stand with handfuls of ash and bone. "She was right," he says. "It really isn't much more of him than a pair of his old shoes. Okay. Here goes."

In silence, we sift the ashes into the field. We walk small circles, distributing. It's too dark to see them fall. They disappear from our hands. If they make any sound it's drowned out by the insects and the rustle of alfalfa.

We go back to the box again and again. We don't speak until the ashes are gone.

"All right," Jonathan says. "Dad, I got this far. This was the best I could do."

He picks up the box and we head into the area of darkness where we think the house must lie. We've lost our bearings scattering the ashes, and we miss the house by some distance. We must walk along the road for nearly a quarter mile. We give a pa.s.sing Volvo something to wonder about-two men walking a country road in their underwear, holding an empty box.

"Bobby?" Jonathan says.

"Yeah?"

"You know why I decided to do this all of a sudden?"

"No."

"After Clare and Rebecca left I started thinking about how I didn't want them to come back to Erich doing so badly upstairs and my father's ashes sitting on a shelf in the living room. It suddenly seemed like too much death in the house. That's when I decided to put the ashes out to pasture. I mean, what was I saving them for?"

"Well, nothing, I guess."

"I want to paint Rebecca's room," he says. "It's too dingy in there. What if we picked up some paint tomorrow, after work? Something gaudy that she'll be nuts about, like bright pink. n.o.body told me a baby would have such bad taste."

I can hear his breathing. What there is of starlight shines gray and faltering on his bare skin. We walk for several minutes in silence.

"Listen," he says.

"Uh-huh."

"If something happens to me, this will be an all right place to put my ashes, too. If and when the time comes, I want you to tell my mother that. Tell her I had a last request, and this was it. G.o.d, if my father and I both end up strewn around here, where will my mother go when she dies?"

"She could come here, too."

"Well, she's always getting dragged someplace she doesn't want to go. Why should things be any different after she's dead, right?"

"Right. I mean, I guess so. This is where we all belong now."

"What if that were true?" he says. "Wouldn't it be something?"

We don't talk anymore. There is too much to say. We travel the last short distance, invisibly watched by night animals. It is like a dream, one of those childhood dreams of public embarra.s.sment, to be walking on a public road in my frayed underwear. But, in this particular dream, I feel no embarra.s.sment. I'm just here, undressed on a country road, with a dark wind blowing around me. Ned's ashes are mingling with the ground in a miniature world of ants and armored, lumbering beetles. Erich sleeps his skimming sleep, intricately lit by dreams. There is a beauty in the world, though it's harsher than we ever expect it to be. It's as unlike the autumn farm on my family's dining-room wall as a bone is unlike a man or a woman. Somewhere on this continent Clare and Rebecca are sleeping, in a motel or a friend's living room. As the blue silhouette of the house appears ahead of us I remember that home is also a place to escape. This is ours; we have it to run from and we have it to return to.

It's black enough right now to see the future-the cold mornings and the long nights, the daily music. Jonathan and I are here to maintain a present, so people can return to it when their futures thin out on them. We've been on our way here for a long time. We start up the drive and I see something riffle the curtain in the bedroom window. For a moment I think Clare has come back. I grab Jonathan's shoulder.

"What?" he says. "What is it?"

"Nothing. It's nothing. Never mind."

Between the impulse and the touch, I've come to my senses. Clare isn't back. What I saw was just the wind blowing. It was either the wind or the spirit of the house itself, briefly unsettled by our nocturnal absence but too old to be surprised by the errands born from the gap between what we can imagine and what we in fact create.

JONATHAN.

O NE AFTERNOON NE AFTERNOON in April, several months before Erich died, Bobby and I took him out to a pond we knew of, deep in the woods. We drove ten miles to reach it, a circle of shimmering blue-black water ringed by pines. That early in the year, we had it all to ourselves. "First swim of the season," Bobby said as we got out of the car. "It's a tradition with us." in April, several months before Erich died, Bobby and I took him out to a pond we knew of, deep in the woods. We drove ten miles to reach it, a circle of shimmering blue-black water ringed by pines. That early in the year, we had it all to ourselves. "First swim of the season," Bobby said as we got out of the car. "It's a tradition with us."

"Beautiful," Erich said. He was frail by then. His legs hurt him, and he had trouble walking-the disease was racing through him more quickly than it moved in most people. His face had altered during the winter. His eyes seemed subtly enlarged, and his jaw was squarer. I suppose the shape of his skull had started to emerge.

"We haven't been out since last summer," I said. Bobby and I helped Erich negotiate the short path that led down a slope to the crescent of earth and pine needles that served as a beach. The lake was almost unnaturally still-it was too early for bees or dragon-flies or the reflections of leaves. Less than a month ago, sc.r.a.ps of snow had lingered brightly in the shadows. Now the tree trunks were wet and vivid as animals' fur and the sun was warm but winter-white, still shy of the deeper colors it would take on by May. The pond reflected a single cigar-shaped cloud that stretched from bank to bank. We stood on the narrow beach, and Bobby skipped a stone along the water's surface, which was smooth and placid as slate.

"You go swimming here in the summer?" Erich asked.

"Mm-hm," I said. "It gets crowded then, it's the local Coney Island. It's a real sight. There are babies and dogs, and eighty-year-olds swimming naked."

He nodded solemnly. I regretted having referred to a future season, one he might not see. I was still getting used to the particular system of courtesy that prevails among the sick. It was like playing host to an impoverished relation, when your own business is still paying off. Only through his unprosperous presence do you realize how much your own wealth has to do with almost everything you do and say.

"So, are we going to go in?" he asked.

"It's freezing," Bobby said.

"You said first swim of the season. You said it was a tradition."

"Figure of speech," I told him. "We're just here to pay our respects. It needs at least another month to warm up."

Although I'd a.s.sumed he was merely playing along, I could tell from his voice how much Erich in fact wanted to go for a swim. He couldn't trust the seasons-by the time it was warmer, he might not be able to walk at all. And even if he could manage it, he was far too inhibited to show his compromised body to the crowds of strangers who'd begin gathering here once swimming weather had arrived.

"Do you really want to?" I asked him.

"Yes," he said, in a tone of childish insistence.

"It'd be a good way to get pneumonia," Bobby said.

"Let's do it," I said. "Come on, the water's okay. There hasn't been ice on it for at least three weeks."

"You're crazy," Bobby said.

"That's a fact. Come on, Erich. Let's go."

"You can't," Bobby said. "It's too G.o.dd.a.m.n cold."

I started taking off my clothes, and Erich joined in. We were not graceful or smooth in our undressing-there was no hint of s.e.x in it. Or whatever there was of s.e.x was as deeply buried as that which prevails among ballplayers before a game, a love of the physical self generous and unlimited enough to extend to other bodies as well, simply because they are present and more or less alike. As Bobby informed us of our folly we worked our way out of our jackets and boots, tossing them onto the ground. We stripped naked in the warm white light. Finally Bobby gave in and began undressing as well, because he refused to be excluded from a mistake he could not prevent.

While Bobby got his clothes off, Erich and I stood together, nude, facing the water. We were too shy to look directly at one another, though I saw enough of him from my sidelong position. His arms and legs were k.n.o.bbed at the joints, peppered with small purple splotches. His chest and abdomen also bore the scattering of marks, like old tattoos that had blurred into the skin. I held myself through a wave of revulsion, not only because his body was so changed but because his entwinement with the disease was so apparent. In jeans and sweatshirts he looked sick but ordinary; naked he looked like sickness itself. He looked as if his humanity was being eaten away and replaced by something else.

I reached over and took his hand, to protect both of us. In doing so, I caught up with my own gesture. I felt for him, a frightened soul no better prepared to face his mortality than I would be if the disease started working on me now, this moment. My face burned.

"Ready?" I said.

"Ready."

We stepped into the water together while Bobby was getting out of his jeans. The first impression was of warmth-an inch of temperate water floated on the surface. But when we penetrated that, the water beneath was numbingly cold.

"Oh," Erich exclaimed as it lapped his ankles.

"Maybe this isn't a very good idea after all," I said. "I mean, it can't be good for you."

"No," he said. "Let's just go a little ways in. I want to-well, I just want to.

"All right," I said. I was still holding his hand. For the first time I felt intimate with him, though we had known one another for years and had made love hundreds of times. We shuffled ahead, taking tiny steps on the sandy bottom. Each new quarter-inch of flesh exposed to water was agony. The sand itself felt like granular ice under our feet.

Bobby splashed out to us. "Crazy," he said. "G.o.dd.a.m.n crazy. Erich, you got two minutes in here, and then I'm taking you out."

He meant it. He would lift Erich bodily and carry him to sh.o.r.e if necessary. Since he and I were boys together, he had made it his business to rescue fools from icy water.

Still, we had two minutes, and we advanced. The water was clear-nets of light fluttered across our bare feet, and minnows darted away from us, visible only by their shadows skimming along the bottom. I glanced at Bobby, who was grave and steady as a steamship. He was a reverse image of Erich; time had thickened him. His belly was broad and protuberant now, and his little copper-colored medallion of pectoral hair had darkened and spread, sending tendrils up onto his shoulders and down along his back. I myself was losing hair-my hairline was at least two inches higher than it had been ten years ago. I could feel with my fingertips a rough circle at the back of my head where the growth was thinner.

"This is good," Erich said. "I mean, well, it feels very good."

It didn't feel good. It was torture. But I thought I understood-it was a strong sensation, one that came from the outer world rather than the inner. He was saying goodbye to a certain kind of pain.

"You're shivering," Bobby said.

"One more minute. Then we'll go in."

"Right. One more minute, exactly."

We stood in the water together, watching the unbroken line of trees on the opposite bank. That was all that happened. Bobby and I took Erich for what would in fact turn out to be his last swim, and waded in only to our knees. But as I stood in the water, something happened to me. I don't know if I can explain this. Something cracked. I had lived until then for the future, in a state of continuing expectation, and the process came suddenly to a stop while I stood nude with Bobby and Erich in a shallow platter of freezing water. My father was dead and I myself might very well be dying. My mother had a new haircut, a business and a young lover; a new life that suited her better than her old one had. I had not fathered a child but I loved one as if I was her father-I knew what that was like. I wouldn't say I was happy. I was nothing so simple as happy. I was merely present, perhaps for the first time in my adult life. The moment was unextraordinary. But I had the moment, I had it completely. It inhabited me. I realized that if I died soon I would have known this, a connection with my life, its errors and c.o.c.keyed successes. The chance to be one of three naked men standing in a small body of clear water. I would not die unfulfilled because I'd been here, right here and nowhere else. I didn't speak. Bobby announced that the minute was up, and we took Erich back to sh.o.r.e.