The Imaginary Lives of Mechanical Men Part 5

A breezy ripple running through the gra.s.s reminds her of one summer spent in Scotland. Of Roger, ridiculous, staring out over Loch Ness at late evening, every day for a week, fully expecting something to emerge. And then, of course, losing faith. Thinking then and again now in the dim present, how like him. How like a man. So she brushes with the stiff strong brush, drawing it through her tangles with slow determination, almost welcoming pain. And in the entire house there is only the one light burning.

Until gradually she realizes what has happened.

Always a coward, just strong enough to steal, he's taken the boy and left.

Downstairs there'll be a note. The papers will come by Federal Express. Then he'll make an issue of everything in court, though he doesn't really want custody. He simply wants the power to bargain. He wants a clean break, a red sports convertible, a blonde girlfriend, an amicable divorce. Anything to make me hurt.

But by G.o.d I will keep this house, this one window where I can see with telescopic sight past the fraudulent lights below and the pathetic patterns of all their little lives. So that when she begins to cry, the tears are indistinguishable from droplets trickling off the handle of a brush held in her shaking hand. And at first she does not hear the sound at all.

There is a faint clicking of toenails across the tile floor below, a phantom movement in the kitchen, shuffling perhaps, which draws her down the stairs like someone already dead. Not even frightened anymore. Not even curious about what form the horror will take this time. Just drawn.

Almost sleepwalking now, with slow determination and only a vague sense of unreality, she turns the corner and flicks on the light, and they whirl from the vicinity of the refrigerator.

"We camped out!" Wesley screams.

They are pale and ragged, hollow eyed, covered with dirt and leaves. Newly dug from some grave.

She gasps, clutches the robe, and backs herself against the wall. They have filthy, hanging hair. Ragged nails and b.l.o.o.d.y fingers. Roger's eyes are a maze of broken capillaries, swollen flesh to the temples; his face is a chaos of stubble, scratches, and sc.r.a.pes.

"I camped out!" he shouts again. "With Dad and Rex all night! We did it! We found the best place in the world and made a hole. And Rex kept us warm. All night!"

"Roger?"

"I don't know, I need ... coffee, something."

"We told stories! We cuddled up with Rex under the leaves."

"Dear G.o.d. Are you hurt? Are you ... are you okay? Look at you. Look at your clothes."

"I need something, I ... a hot bath maybe. Some breakfast."

Amy drops the brush, begins to undress them, stops to wipe a cut, to pick leaves from Wesley's hair. Scolds and cries, the back of one hand pressed to her lips. Jerks their filthy clothing away and makes a pile before shooing them upstairs to steaming hot water and antiseptic. She hunts out clean towels and underwear. Pours forth a breathless litany of questions and recriminations. What in G.o.d's name was he trying to prove? Alone with a child, no camping equipment, no precautions of any sort. When you could have frozen to death. Letting that dog back in the house like this. Ticks and lice. People have died for G.o.d's sake. There has to be a rational explanation. Roger. Roger, what in G.o.d's name were you thinking? What was going on inside your mind?

"Nothing," he says. "I just ... I don't know."

She hovers, waiting for an explanation that never comes.

Overturns a flower arrangement on one of her trips down the stairs, looking for clean socks perhaps or fabric softener or something, which falls from her mind as soon as she sees the new thing. It stops her, leaves her breathless one last time, like the magician's grand finale. And she, like the beautiful a.s.sistant, takes it up in her hand and holds forth the wonder. Across the seat of her chair in the kitchen, someone has left her a sprig of winter jasmine, as thin and ragged as honeysuckle, as yellow and bright as a star.

Food Is Fuel.

1.

In the tale of the j.a.panese magician, the year is 1939, and the nightclub is a renovated mansion called The Oasis. It's owned by Robert Ha.s.sard. The opening scene has Robert gliding from table to table, greeting his guests like an election-year politician, and it's a comforting moment. The men are in tuxedos. The women, after they have been undraped, are in a profusion of sequins and ostrich feathers. They glimmer and shine in spite of the freezing rain outside, and soon everyone has been warmed by the orchestra's own rendition of Tommy Dorsey's "Little White Lies." There's polished bra.s.s everywhere you turn. Leaded crystal and white gloves. In fact, the only detail that seems out of place in this part of the story is the one involving the c.o.c.ktail waitresses. The girls of The Oasis wear tight satin shorts and white satin blouses, and they go wiggling between the tables with a sensuality not ordinarily a.s.sociated with the thirties. Still, it's the year of Gone with the Wind. Two years since the Hindenburg disaster. And anything seems possible. There are even rumors that Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey are getting back together.

2.

The orchestra swings into "Beale Street Blues" just as Robert pa.s.ses a darkened table in one of the alcoves. It is of course my table, and he notices me because I am the author and my sudden appearance has given him a start. So naturally Robert hesitates, but at last he extends a soft, unformed hand. "Jack," he manages to say, "how are you?"

"Fine, Robert. How's business?"

"Great. Really great. What are you doing here?" Though he knows very well what is happening.

He knows because the young woman with me is roughly half my age-much thinner than she would be in an ordinary story-with a wide, sensuous mouth and dark hair done in a style that Robert has never seen before. She looks altogether too fragile to bear the weight she will be asked to bear over the next few pages, like one of those Polish refugees we keep seeing in the newsreels. Her dark eyes have a distance about them that frightens Robert since he knows I've brought her here for s.e.x, as I've done in earlier stories, though he himself cannot imagine making love to anything so frail.

"I want you to meet Claire," I say.

So Robert frowns as usual, takes another step into the darkness, and extends his hand once again. "How do you do, miss. Welcome to The Oasis."

After they touch and he's left staring at his palm, I say, "Relax, Robert. Why don't you tell us what you have on stage tonight."

"Oh, yeah ... yeah. I think you're going to like this, Jack. It's a magician. j.a.panese guy, you know. He does stuff with food. Really outrageous stuff, like he cooks children or something." Robert laughs twice and looks to see if anyone is noticing our conversation.

"Really?" I take a slow drink and savor the sting before swallowing. Then look out over the crowd for the one face that could change all this. And find nothing. "I don't know, Robert. I may need to make some changes."

Then I look at the girl and pat her hand.

3.

In reality I am back in the hospital room after a long day of tests, somewhere between "liquids only" and a dawn that doesn't seem to be imminent. I look across at my daughter, who is about half my age, and the thought that she might have some connection to Claire, however tenuous, makes me nauseated. So I try to redirect my thoughts. The whole thing is unsteady in my mind, and finally I say, "Ann Marie-I have something to give you. I've been thinking about it for a long time."

She straightens in the chair, blinks herself back into the room, and finds a voice that's husky and slow after hours of almost sleep. She's pretty and plump, my daughter, like all of those actresses before the war, and I see her the way I see Judy Garland-perfect-in the Land of Oz. She is a sweet girl, innocent of any imagination that could threaten her. "You'll be home in a couple of days, Pop. You can give it to me then."

"Maybe not. You never used to call me Pop."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you must think I'm going to die."

"Well, ... Jack, ... that's ridiculous." She stretches and yawns, then makes a pocket for her feet in the blanket and nestles again into one corner of the chair. "You just have a big day tomorrow, and you should get some sleep. I think we should both get some sleep. It's two AM."

I push the b.u.t.tons, and something under the bed whirs, bending me into the shape of a W. "I like this," I say. "I feel like an astronaut, you know, re-entering the atmosphere or something."

"It's two AM, Pop. They're scheduled to operate at six."

"This won't take long. Just give me a sip of water. I want to tell you a story. Story about a j.a.panese magician."

Without looking at the window, that useless mirror, I already know what is happening outside in the hospital parking lot. I can just tell. I'm that good at imagining this sort of thing. So I'm certain that there are two security guards, cupping their coffee in both hands, a young woman, and an older man on the sidewalk next to the emergency ramp. And for a reason that I can't yet articulate, they remind me of characters out of Hemingway-maybe I'll hit upon it later, the proper allusion-but at the moment, in the resinous present, I know for sure that these two guards go their way tottering like penguins. And I know that there are broad sheets of runoff on the concrete, freezing rain that's layering itself into transparencies that reflect streetlights into crooked shapes. It's a monstrous night. And I know that the only other person in the parking lot is a bundled nurse, impatient to get home after her shift, who cannot wait for her car's defroster to work. And that she reaches one hand to the windshield and scrubs wild circles until-just for an instant-she can see perfectly into my second-floor room. And she thinks, good G.o.d, are we ever going to see flowers like that again? And then puts her car into gear. While inside the room itself, I'm mentioning to my daughter that the story of the j.a.panese magician takes place on a night very much like this one. And she sighs. Just like her mother, for whom she is named.

4.

When midnight arrives, the j.a.panese magician does indeed take the stage and goes through the usual flourishes, except with a difference, a little twist on the conventions. It's what makes him special. Take the dove trick, for instance, something we think we've seen a thousand times. It works like this in the hands of Hadashi, the j.a.panese magician: As he draws off his white glove, one finger at a time, he gives it a snap and produces, not the fluttering dove we expect, but a luna moth, which perches on the tip of one finger. He pretends to stroke the creature with his free hand and walks it through the loops and swirls of some imaginary flight while the moth sits serenely, tilting its wings from time to time to keep its balance. Then Hadashi faces us, bows, and brings his hands together in a single explosive clap. The moth disappears, and in its place there is a paper fan which, when opened, reveals the pale green image of a luna moth. Then, with a flick, the fan is gone, and the real moth reappears, its long swallowtails and delicate kimono wings unwrinkled by the transformation. This time Hadashi tosses it into the air, letting it make a single stuttering circle before alighting again on his finger like a trained animal. I applaud, not because of the magic, but because of the ch.o.r.eography. Hadashi is as graceful as a dancer.

Claire applauds.

Gradually the spotlight narrows, and the magician lifts from his black table a long samurai sword, unsheathed with a hiss and inserted into the light with one upswung stroke. Then Hadashi raises the moth to his lips for a farewell kiss before setting it to flight. It makes the same uncertain circle as before and seems at first to alight on the gleaming point of the katana. The wings, though, never stop fluttering. I a.s.sume it's merely a problem of balance until gradually I come to understand. The creature is impaling itself.

For a long time it struggles, its task made more difficult by the increasing width of the blade. For a moment I slip back into the story itself, amazed at how diligent the moth is, how like a bird it beats its wings against the resisting steel. And how like a fairy tale it dies. Hadashi's hand never falters though. Claire and I are seated close enough to the scene-or perhaps this is only my imagination-that we can see the glistening point as it breaks through the animal's back. Still, it takes an eternity for the wings to stop beating, a time during which the spotlight shrinks into an even narrower column of light, until at last we see only the pale hand of the master, the cold silver blade, and the slowly stiffening wings.

When the spotlight widens, Hadashi is with us again, smiling his slight smile and pa.s.sing the sword to an a.s.sistant. Then he places a hibachi on his table and makes a fire with another snap of his fingers. Burns a strip of rice paper to show the fire is real. Next he takes off his coat and replaces it with a chef's ap.r.o.n before setting an ordinary skillet into the flames. All of this he does without a word, letting the fire do its work until he has a dab of b.u.t.ter sizzling in the pan, adding, after a moment, a handful of sugar and a touch of sherry as the mixture begins to caramelize. Then lets the blaze lick higher, tilting the skillet this way and that until crackling blue flames halo the edges. And then, with one smooth motion, he swallows the moth between lid and pan. Just like that.

It is at this point that I become more fully conscious of Claire. What I mean is that I realize I've left her without a significant role in the story so far, not even a reaction to the magician's act. So I listen for her words as Hadashi s.n.a.t.c.hes the lid away and flips the contents into the air, the moth flying once again beautifully, radiantly into the upper darkness, while I seem to hear her saying something about home, going home. And I begin to think that my idea of amus.e.m.e.nt might be a bit droll for someone just out of her teens.

"There's no need to be upset," I a.s.sure her. "It's just an illusion. Just a moth. And anyway"-I try to make her smile-"they do it to the women all the time."

"Do what, Jack?"

"The magicians. They stick 'em with swords."

"I think I want to go home."

That makes me pause. Finally I ask, "When you say you want to go home, do you mean to my place? Or home to your parents ... in New Orleans?"

5.

Now I can tell she's all out of patience, and why not? Yesterday she flew a thousand miles to spend the night in a pink cheap motel near the hospital in order to be with me today because I have no wife, no other children, and the weight falls where it always does. I can see the tightening of her shoulders and the clenching of the jaw and the deep, deep breath she takes. "Pop," she exhales at last. "Do you want me to see if they'll give you something to make you sleep?"

"Why would you do that?"

"It's okay to be nervous. You just need to save your strength."

"I'm not nervous."

"They do this operation all the time. It's almost routine."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your story. It was just a dream, or maybe the medication. Anyhow-I think your imagination was giving you a picture of yourself as Claire. Who naturally wants to go home, because you're somewhere you've never been before and it's a little unfamiliar and a little frightening. But it's going to be okay. I promise."

"This is what they taught you in graduate school?"

"Pop, there wasn't a j.a.panese magician. Dr. Hadashi is your doctor. I met him yesterday. In this room. Here."

"You're telling me how to write my own story?"

"Your 'magician' was using a scalpel, and even in your dream the moth 'came back to life,' didn't it? It's going to be okay."

So this is to be our Thanksgiving and Christmas, is it? The long sleepy interlude after the feast when we plop down in stuffed comfort and talk. Like families. Only now she's telling me I'm a coward. And I am in one sense. But this isn't going to be the dream story she suspects, not by any measure. It's something else entirely. And what I'm trying to confess is that after the marriage to her mother failed and the novel succeeded-shortly after that combined tragedy-I began taking my students to lunch. That's what I'm trying to tell her.

Only now I'm wondering if she realizes that Hadashi is the same surgeon who operated on her mother. And that that's why I chose him. We live in such a small s.p.a.ce, after all, and for such a short time. We have to expect these coincidences. I wonder if that's occurred to her yet.

6.

I first met Claire from the bed of one of her housemates. What I mean of course is that they all shared a bungalow on Charles Street and treated me, the four of them, with a nonchalance that seemed at the time like a holdover from the sixties. I was Jack. They were sweet. And what was the harm of it until the one crisp November morning when I raised myself on one elbow, still in the musky warmth of Katie and the previous night, to uncover enough of a coincidence to make the story of the j.a.panese magician into tragedy: Claire and I both had early cla.s.ses. She was the dark one. The tall thin one who looked like a movie director's idea of an art major-large, liquid eyes and a face too intelligent for her to be cast simply as "housemate number two."

Then, after I rubbed my face and untangled some of the bedcover, I found her still in the hallway, still staring at me and made beautiful by a morning light too delicate to cast a shadow. And so I suggested, "Hi?"

"Hi," she said. Like someone encountering a foreign language.

Why was I surprised? It was her house after all, and I was the stranger struggling to get his feet on the floor and taking care to rearrange the sheets over the bare shoulders lying next to me and sniffing and rubbing my face again like an old drunk. And she had every right to stare the way they stare when they think they're safe. When they reach that dangerous plateau where you can actually see them thinking "we're all adults here."

"You need to use the bathroom first?" she asked.

"Ah, no. You go ahead."

There. As simple as that. My moment of unfaithfulness to Katie, with whom I had been unfaithful to Ashley, with whom I'd been unfaithful to Ann Marie, my wife. It would be the moment in the film of my life in which the camera crept close and tried to find some flicker of a decision working its way across my face. Except that there isn't any decision of course, just a need to find something I had been searching for. Trying to clear my head and maybe even to determine if her robe really was hanging open and if it was the thinness of her thighs or my own imagination that vastly exaggerated her s.e.x. This was the moment when I dropped my eyes and spoke so softly that I must have known it was already a secret between us. Like a man enslaved.

Later, downstairs, we shared bagels and juice. She had transformed herself. In the fairy tale it would have been into a princess, I suppose. Here, a fashion model. While I had stuffed myself into jeans and T-shirt, the motley of middle age. We talked in conspiratorial voices, stumbling past the awkwardness of it all until she said something like "you're the writer, right?" and maybe giggled. I'm not sure.

"Yeah," I said, because a yes would have been unbelievable, "a literary genius." And then I did the eyebrow thing and crooked a smile, saying, "Do you see my socks over there somewhere, maybe on the floor?" Which is what convinced her, I believe. Not flowers or fancy words. Socks. Because women really don't believe in the ritual of romance. They believe in breakfast. That's the secret, I have found. Letting them see that you're watching them eat, caressing their food with your eyes. Marriages have been made on less.

Except then I heard myself saying, "Katie and I are having lunch at the Depot. You want to come along?"