Little, Big Part 41

"Oh." Since his night and morning with Bruno, it had been a policy of Auberon's not to think or ask questions about Russell Eigenblick. Love was strange: it could color whole pa.s.sages of the world, and ever after they retained the color of love, whether that color was bright or dark. He thought of Latin music, souvenir T-shirts, certain City streets and places, the nightingale. "You were in fireworks?"

"Sure. You didn't know that? Hey. The biggest. Name in the papers, man. It was a lot of laughs."

"It wasn't ever mentioned at home," Auberon said, feeling the familiar exclusion. "Not to me."

"No?" George looked at him strangely. "Well, it all came to a kind of sudden end. Just about the time you were born."

"Oh yeah? How come?"

"Circ.u.mstances, man, circ.u.mstances." He stared into his coffee, a pensiveness odd for George having fallen on him. Then, seeming to come to a decision, he said, "You know you had a sister, named Lilac."

"Sister?" This was a new idea. "Sister?"

"Well, yeah, sister."

"No. Sophie had a baby, named Lilac, that went away. I had an imaginary friend, named Lilac. But no sister." He pondered. "I always kind of thought there were three, though. I don't know why."

"Sophie's baby's the one I'm talking about. I always thought the story up there was a Well, never mind."

But Auberon had had enough. "No, uh-uh, wait a minute. No *never mind.' " George looked up startled and guilty at Auberon's tone. "If there's a story, I want to hear it."

"It's a long one."

"All the better."

George pondered. He got up, put on his old cardigan and sat down again. "Okay. You asked for it." He thought for a time how to begin. Decades of odd drugs made him a vivid but not always a coherent story-teller. "Fireworks. Three Lilacs, did you say?"

"One was imaginary."

"s.h.i.t. I wonder what makes the other two. Anyway, there was one in there that was false: like a false nose. I mean exactly like. That's the fireworks story: that one.

"See, a long time ago, one day, Sophie and Ia Well, it was one winter day when I went up to Edgewood, and she and I a But I didn't think anything came of it, you know? Sort of a crazy fling. I wrote it off. I mean she had me fooled. Meanwhile, I knew there was a thing between her and Smoky." He looked at Auberon. "Common knowledge, right?"

"Wrong."

"You didn't a They didn't a"

"They never told me anything. I knew there'd been a baby, Lilac, of Sophie's. Then she was gone. That's all I knew."

"Well, listen. As far as I know, Smoky still thinks he's Lilac's father. So, you know, mum is definitely the word on this story. Wazza matter?"

Auberon was laughing. "No, nothing," he said. "Yeah, sure, mum's the word."

"Anyway. This isa"what?a"twenty-five years ago maybe. I'd gotten heavily into fireworks, because of Act Theory. Remember Act Theory? No? Jesus, things don't last long in that line these days, do they. Act Theory, diga"G.o.d, I don't know if I remember now how it worked myself, but it was this idea about how life worksa"how life is acts, and not thoughts or things: an act is a thought and a thing both at once, only it has this shape, see, so it can be a.n.a.lyzed. Every act, no matter what kind, pick up a cup, or a whole life, or like all of evolution, every act has the same shape; two acts together are another act with the same shape; all life is only one big act, made up of a million smaller ones, follow?"

"Not really."

"Don't matter. It was the reason I got into fireworks though, because a rocket has the same form as an act: initiation, burning, explosion, burning out. Only sometimes that rocket, that act, sets off another initiation, burning, explosion, and soon, get the picture? And so you can set up a display that has the same form as life. Acts, acts, all acts. Sh.e.l.ls: inside one sh.e.l.l you can pack a bunch of others, which go off after the big one, packed in like a chicken is packed inside an egg, and inside that chicken more eggs with more chickens, and so on odd infinooty. Gerbs: a gerb has the same form as the feeling of being alive: a bunch of little explosions and burnings going on all the time, burning out, initiating, burning out, that all together make a picture, like thought makes pictures in the middle of the air."

"What's a gerb?"

"A gerb, man. Chinese fire. You know, that makes a picture of two battleships shooting at each other, and that turns into Old Glory."

"Oh, yeah."

"Yeah. Lancework we call those. Just like thinking. A few people got that, too. Some critics." He said nothing for a time, remembering vividly the river barge where he'd set off The Act Entrained and other shows. Darkness, and the slap of oily water; the smell of punk. And then the sky filled up with fire, which is like life, which is light that ignites and consumes and goes out and for a moment traces a figure in the air that can't be forgotten but vihich, in a sense, was never there. And he racing around like a madman, shouting at his a.s.sistants, firing sh.e.l.ls from the mortar, his hair singed, throat burning, coat motheaten from cinders, while his thought took shape above.

"About Lilac," Auberon said.

"Yeah? Oh, yeah. Well, I'd been working for weeks for a new show. I had some new ideas about garnitures, and it wasa"well, it was my life, man, night and day. So one night a"

"Garnitures?"

"Garnitures are the part of the rocket that goes blooey at the end, like a flower. Y'see, you got your rocket, and here's your case with your composition that burns and gets it aloft; and up here you got your, what you call your cap, and that's where your garniture goesa"stars, pinched stars, pumped starsa""

"Okay. Go on."

"So I'm up on the third floor in this workshop I had fitted out up therea"top floor, in case anything went, you know, the whole building wouldn't goa"it's late, and I hear the bell ring. Bells still worked in those days. So I put down the case and stuffa"you can't just walk away from a roomful of fireworks, you knowa"and all the time the bell's going, and I go down, who is this wise guy leaning on the bell. It was Sophie.

"It was a cold night, raining, I remember, and she had this shawl on, and that face in the shawl. She looked about dead, like she hadn't slept for days. Big eyes like saucers, and tears, or maybe it was the rain on her face. She had this big bundle in her arms in another shawl, and I said what's up and so on, and she said, *I've brought Lilac,' and she pulled the shawl away from this thing she had."

George shuddered, deeply, the shudder seeming to start at his loins and work upward till it flew off the top of his head, making his hair risea"the shudder of one whose future grave, they say, is somewhere stepped on. "Remember, man, I never knew about any of this. I didn't know I was a daddy. I hadn't heard from up that way in a year. And suddenly there's Sophie, standing on the stoop like a bad dream saying Here's your daughter, man, and showing me this baby, if that's what it was.

"Man, this baby was in trouble.

"It looked old. I guess it was supposed to be about two now, but it looked about forty-five, a little withered bald guy, with this sly little face like some middle-aged furrier with troubles." George laughed, a strange laugh. "It was supposed to be a girl, remember. G.o.d, it gave me a start. So we're standing there, and the kid puts out its hand like this"a"palm up, flata""and checks the rain, and pulls the scarf over its head. Hey. What could I say? The kid made itself clear. I brought them in.

"We came in here. She set the kid up in that high chair. I couldn't look at it, but I like couldn't look away. And Sophie told me the story: her and me, that afternoon, strange as it may seem, she's figured the dates blahblahblah, Lilac is my kid. Buta"dig thisa"not this one. She's figured it out: the true Lilac got changed, one night, for this one. This one isn't real at all. Not the real Lilac, not even a real baby. I'm stunned. I'm reeling around saying What! What! And all the time"a"he started laughing again, helplesslya""this kid is sitting there with this att.i.tudea"I can't describe ita"this sneer on its face like okay, okay, I've heard this tripe a million timesa"like it was boreda"and all I could think was that it needed a cigar in its mouth, just to complete the picture.

"Sophie was like in shock. Shivering. Trying to tell me all this stuff at once. Then she stopped, couldn't go on. It seems the kid was all right at first, she never knew the difference; she couldn't even tell what night it was when it happened, *cause she seemed so normal. And beautiful. Only quiet. Real quiet. Like pa.s.sive. Thena"a few months beforea"it started to change. Very slowly. Then faster. It started to sort of wither. But it wasn't sick. Doc checked it at first, all okay, big appet.i.te, smilinga"but getting old, like. Oh G.o.d. I put an afghan around her and started making tea and I'm saying Calm down! Calm down! And she's telling me how it dawned on her what must have happeneda"I just wasn't convinced yet, man, I thought this kid should see a specialista"and then how she started hiding it from everybody, and they started asking hey, how's Lilac, how come we never see her around anymore." Another fit of unwilled laughter. George was on his feet now, acting out the parts of the story, especially his own bewilderment, and suddenly he turned wide-eyed to the empty high chair. "Then we look. The kid is gone.

"Not in the chair. Not underfoot.

"The door's open. Sophie's dazed, she lets out a little crya"Ah!a"and looks at me. See, I was its daddy. I was supposed to do something. That's why she'd come and all. G.o.d. Just the thought of this thing running around loose in my house gave me the w.i.l.l.i.e.s. I went out in the hall. n.o.body. Then I saw it climbing up the stairs. Stair by stair. It lookeda"what's the worda"purposeful: like it knew where it was going. So I said, *Hey, wait a second, bustera"' I couldn't think of it as a girla"and I reached for its arm. It felt weird, cold and dry, like leather. It looked back at me with this look of hatea"who the f.u.c.k are youa"and it gave a pull away, and I pulled back, anda"" George sat again, overcome. "It tore. I tore a hole in the G.o.d d.a.m.n thing. Rrrrip. A hole opened up near its shoulder, and you could look in, like into a dolla"empty. I let go fast. It didn't seem to be hurt, it just flapped the arm, like d.a.m.n now it's busted, and crawled on; and its blanket was coming off, and I could see there were some other cracks and splits here and therea"at the knees, you know, and the ankles. This kid was falling apart.

"Okay. Okay. What could I think then? I came back in here. Sophie's bundled up, with these big eyes. *You're right,' I said. *It ain't Lilac. And it ain't mine, either.'

"She broke down. Like dissolved. That was the last straw. She just melted, man it was the saddest thing I've ever seena"'You've got to help me, you've got to'a"you know. Okay, Okay, I'll help; but what in h.e.l.l am I supposed to do? She didn't know. Up to me. *Where is she?' Sophie asked me.

"*Went upstairs,' I said. *Maybe it's cold. There's a fire up there.' And she suddenly gave me this looka"horrified, but just too tired to do anything or even really feel anythinga"I can't describe it. She grabbed my hand and said, *Don't let her go near the fire, please, please!'

"Now what's that about? I said, *Look, you just sit here and get warm and I'll see.' What the h.e.l.l I was going to see I didn't know. I picked up the baseball bata"be prepared, you knowa"and I went out, and she was still pleading: *Don't let her get near the fire.'

George mimed creeping up the stairs, and entering the second-floor drawing-room. "I go in, and there it was. By the fire. Sitting on the whatchacallit, the hearth there. And I can not believe my eyes: because as it sits there it's reaching into the firea"yes!a" reaching into the fire and picking out, you know, glowing embers: picking them out, and popping them into its mouth."

He came close to Auberon, this could not be believed unless he gripped Auberon's wrist in pledge of his truthfulness. "And crunching them." George made the gesture: like eating a walnut. "Ca-runch. Ca-runch. And smiling at mea"smiling. You could see the coals glowing inside its head. Like a jack o'lantern. Then they'd go out, and it'd pick out another. And boy, it was getting a lot livelier behind this, Chipper, you know, a little refreshment; it jumps up, does a little dance. Naked now, too, Like a little broken evil plaster cherub. I swear-to-G.o.d nothing: nothing has ever scared me like that. I was so scared I couldn't think, I just moved. You know? Too scared to be scared.

"I went over to the fire. I picked up the shovel. I dug up a whole lotta hot stuff from deep inside the fire. I showed it: mmm mmm good. Follow me, follow me. Okay, it wants to play this game, hot chestnuts, very hot chestnuts, come on, come on, we went out and up the stairs, it keeps reaching for the shovel; uh-uh, no no, I keep leading it on.

"Now listen, man. I don't know if I was crazy or what. All I knew was that this thing was evil: I mean not evil evil, because I don't think it was anything, I mean it was like a doll or a puppet or a machine, but moving on its own, like awful things in dreams that you know aren't alive, piles of old clothes or mounds of grease that suddenly get up and start threatening you, okay? Dead, but moving. Animated. But evil, I mean an awful evil thing to have in the world. All I could think of was: get rid of it. Lilac or no Lilac. Just. Get. Rid of it.

"So anyway it's following me. And up on the third floor across from the library is my, you know, my studio. Okay? Get the picture? The door is closed, of course; I closed it when I came down, always did, can't be too careful. So I'm fumbling with it, and the thing is looking at me with these eyes that weren't eyes, and oh s.h.i.t any minute now it's going to figure out the scam. I shove the shovel under it's nose. The d.a.m.n door won't open, won't open, then it doesa"anda""

With a mighty imaginary gesture, George heaved the shovelful of live coals into the studio filled with charged fireworks. Auberon held his breath.

"And then for the kida""

With a swift, careful kick, side of the foot, George propelled the false Lilac into the studio also.

"And then the door!" He flung shut the door, staring at Auberon with the same wild horror and hurry that must have been in his eyes that night. "So done! Done! I flew down the stairs. *Sophie! Sophie! Run!' She's still sitting in that chaira"right therea"paralyzed. So I picked her upa"not exactly carried her, but like a b.u.m's rush, because I can already hear the noises upstairsa"and get her out into the hall. Bang! Blooey! Out the front door.

"And we stood out there in the rain, man, just looking up. Or anyway I looked up, she just sort of hid her head. And out the studio windows comes my whole show. Stars. Rockets. Magnesium, phosphorus, sulfur. Light for days. Noise. Stuff is falling all around us, hissing in the puddles. Then blowey! Some big cache goes up, and puts a hole right through the roof. Smoke and stars, boy we lit up the neighborhood. But the rain had got a lot worse; and pretty soon it was out, about the time the cops and the fire-trucks got there.

"Well, I had the studio pretty well reinforced, you know, steel door and asbestos and stuff, so the building didn't go. But by G.o.d if there was anything left of that kid, or whatever it was a" .

"And Sophie?" Auberon said.

"Sophie," George said. "I told her: *Listen, it's all right. I got it.'

"*What?' she says. *What?'

"*I got it,' I said. *I blew it up,' I said. *Nothing left of it.'

"And hey: do you know what she said to me?"

Auberon could not say.

"She looked up at mea"and man I don't think anything I saw that night was as bad as her face just thena"and she said: *You killed her.'

"That's what she said. *You killed her.' That's all."

George sat down, weary, depleted, at the kitchen table. "Killed her," he said. "That's what Sophie thought, that I'd killed her only child. Maybe that's what she still thinks, I don't know. That old George killed her only child, and his too. Blew her up, in stars and stripes forever." He looked down. "Man, I don't want to see somebody look at me the way she did that night, not ever again."

"What a story," Auberon said, when he could find his voice again.

"See, if," George said. "If it was Lilac, but just transformed in some weird way a"

"But she knew," Auberon said. "She knew it wasn't really Lilac."

"Did she?" George said. "Who knows what the h.e.l.l she knew." A dark silence rose. "Women. How do you figure *em."

"But," Auberon said, "what I don't understand is, why they would have brought her that thing in the first place. I mean if it was such a fake."

George eyed him suspiciously. "What *they' is this?" he asked.

Auberon looked away from his cousin's inquiry. "Well, they," he said, surprised and oddly embarra.s.sed that this explanation was coming out of his mouth. "The ones who stole the real one."

"Hm," George said.

Auberon said nothing further, having nothing further to say on that head, and seeing quite plainly and for the first time in his life just why silence had been kept so well among those whom he had used to spy on. Having them for explanation felt in fact like having none at all, and he found himself now, w.i.l.l.y-nilly, sworn to the same silence; and yet he thought he would not ever again be able to explain a single thing in the world without recourse to that collective p.r.o.noun: they. Them.

"Well, anyway," he said at last. "That accounts for two."

George raised his eyebrow in question.

"Two Lilacs," Auberon said. He counted them off: "Of the three I thought there were, one was imaginary, mine, and I know where she is." In fact he felt her, deep within, take notice of his mention of her. "One was false. That's the one you blew up."

"But if," George said, "if that was the real one, only Somehow changed a Naaah."

"No," said Auberon. "That's the one that's left, the one that's unaccounted for: the true one." He looked out the cas.e.m.e.nt at the gloaming which was stealing now over Old Law Farm as well as over the high towers of the City. "I wonder," he said.

"I wonder a" George said. "I'd give a lot to know."

"Where," Auberon said. "Where, where."

Thinking of Waking Far, far, and dreaming: turning in her sleep, restless, and thinking of waking, though she would not wake yet for many a year; an itch in her nose, and a yawn in her throat. She even blinked, but saw nothing through sleeping eyes but dream: a dream, amid the spring she slept in, of autumn: of the gray vale where, on the day of her tour, the stork that bore her and Mrs. Underhill had at last put its feet on terra firma or something like it, and how Mrs. Underhill had sighed and dismounted, and how she, Lilac, had reached out to put her arms around Mrs. Underhill's neck and be helped downa . She yawned; having learned how to do it, she was now apparently unable to stop, and couldn't decide whether she liked the sensation or not.

"Sleepy," Mrs. Underhill said.

"Where is this?" Lilac said when she had been set on her feet.

"Oh, a place," Mrs. Underhill said softly. "Come along."

A broken arch, roughly carved, or finely carved and roughly weathered, stood before them; no walls extended from it, it stood alone astride the leaf-littered path showing the only way into the sere November wood beyond. Lilac, apprehensive yet resigned now, put her young small hand in Mrs. Underhill's old huge one, and like any granny and child in a chill park from which summer and fun have fled, they went on to the gate; the stork stood alone on one red leg, preening her rumpled and disordered leathers.

They pa.s.sed under the arch. Old birds' nests and moss filled its coffers and reliefs. The carving was obscure, creatures inchoate or returning to chaos. Lilac pa.s.sed her hand over it as they pa.s.sed: the stuff it was made of was not stone. Gla.s.s? Lilac wondered. Bone?

"Horn," said Mrs. Underhill. She took off one of her many cloaks, and dressed Lilac's nakedness in it. Lilac kicked the brown leaves of the vale, thinking it might be nice to lie down in them, for a long time.

"Well, a long day," said Mrs. Underhill, as though sensing this thought.

"It went too fast," Lilac said.

Mrs. Underhill put her arm around Lilac's shoulder. Lilac stumbled against her, her feet seeming to have lost contact with her will. She yawned again. "Aw," said Mrs. Underhill tenderly, and she picked up Lilac with a single swift motion of her strong arms. She drew the cloak more tightly around her as Lilac nestled against her. "And was it fun?" she asked.

"It was fun," Lilac said.

They had stopped before a great oak at whose foot a whole summer's worth of leaves was piled. From a hollow in it an owl, just awakened, boomed softly to itself. Mrs. Underhill bent to lay her burden in the rustling leaves.

"Dream of it," she said.