The Indestructible Man Page 15

  By the time I stumbled home it was almost dusk. I still felt a hard putrid weight in my stomach, though I’d purged twice more out the car window. I slumped down at the kitchen table with a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin, staring out the window at the brown, interminable struts looming in the field outside. They seemed to wobble, as if they would fall and cut all the houses in our neighborhood in half. You had been gone twenty-five days without a word, a letter, any sign that you were alive. But I knew you were. You had simply climbed down into the middle of some cornfield, wandered your way out, encountered a lonely farmer whose wife had just died, claimed amnesia and taken up with him where she had left off. Or worse: you had met a stranger on one of those narrow ledges, fallen in love and were set to begin a new life, sustaining yourselves on the food and water the Caretakers leave. Perhaps Fred Millman, the traitor and coward, had found you and convinced you to follow him from crossway to crossway, your feet never again touching the ground.

  Though I was desperately nauseous, I pulled myself up from the table and wandered into the garage, to my old workbench and tool chest. I threw wrenches and socket sets and hammers onto the cement floor until I found the old hatchet I once used to chop down the crabapple tree that drooped over the Whisks’ yard. We burned it for firewood all that winter, a sweet and smoky warmth.

  I hiked across the yard and out toward the field, where children were playing on the gate around the ladder. As soon as they saw me they ran, screaming that a crazy old man was threatening them with an ax. I grabbed the top of the fence and slowly hoisted one leg over, then the other—no longer an easy task, but the alcohol dulled the pain and stiffness. I stood at the base of the ladder and looked into the sky, trying to spot the catwalks high above. They were thin, almost invisible against the dusky sky, like spider webs. I squinted and looked hard; this was your very last chance, and if you were not already sliding down the ladder there was no further hope. Not a single figure interrupted the endless, flat line of oak and iron.

  I reared back and swung the ax at the nearest strut.

  The blade hit hard, cutting a thin chip in the ancient grayish-brown wood. The strut held, but a shock traveled through the blade, up the handle and into my arms, and I felt my bones vibrate. I shook off the shooting pain in my shoulders and swung again, hacking another inch into the column.

  As I chopped a light came on in the Whisks’ kitchen window, and Edith shuffled across the grass in slippers and a pink floral housecoat. She was yelling something, but I could not hear over the chopping and did not care to listen. She hoisted herself over the fence, landing hard.

  “Stop it!” she screamed, running toward me, arms flailing, fists curled into tense balls. “Edgar, stop it!”

  She hooked her arm round my elbow to lessen the blow, but I pushed her to the ground and swung again. My arms were sore and growing numb, but I had chopped a wedge a third of the way through the wooden strut—only a few more strokes would send it hurtling down.

  “Stop,” she said again, crying. “I know you’re upset about Gloria. But please. Eddie...”

  “...is not coming back,” I huffed. Before I could raise the ax again I felt a hand grip my shoulder and forcibly spin me around. Abbott’s fist hit my temple like a cinder block, and for the next few minutes all I knew was the ringing in my ears and the grass against my face. I felt strong fingers pry the ax from my limp hand, heard feet shuffle away through the grass, and Edith’s high voice crying, “Eddie....”

  I lay there for a long time, the grass moistening around me, snails and beetles crawling across my hand, just another obstacle to them. As the air became chilly I decided I no longer had the strength to pull myself up, no longer even wanted to, so I thought it best to lie there and let the elements take me. The cicadas droned in my ears, and after a while I closed my eyes, and all was silent and dark.

  When I woke face-down in crabgrass the sun was up, and I was shivering. I lay in the cold dewy grass a while longer, disappointed that I was still alive. I turned over to look at the sky and noticed the heavy blanket wrapped around me, the folds tucked gently under my sides. My jaw fell open and the air rushed back into my lungs. I finally struggled to my feet; dragging the blanket behind me, I trudged back across the field, toward home.

  And here I am, this morning, wrapped in the blanket I left for you, in the same kitchen where I watched you climb away from the world. I am tired, my left eye is purple and swollen, my head burns from my eyes to the base of my skull, and my stomach could not possibly expel anything more. But I am not as weighted down as before, and my breathing is easier. Good sense tells me I am probably still drunk; my tolerance for scotch disappeared long ago. It tells me the blanket was probably Edith’s doing; though I threw her to the ground and tried to sever her only link to her son, she might have taken pity on me. Or some jogger happened to pass by and tried to save me from hypothermia. But I do not listen. You are here, somewhere close.

  So though my arms are stiff from age and exertion, the rungs slippery with dew, I will wash away my hangover with a glass of water and a handful of aspirin, my fear with a deep breath or two. I will march across the field, past the Whisks’ house and the grass still stained with blood from my eye, roll up my sleeves and crack my knuckles, grasp the ancient wood, and climb. I am not sure I will be able to reach you, but as I hoist myself up rung by rung I will try not to be afraid, and I will not look down.

  Mary Magdalene Talks To The Street Sweeper

  (for Richard Shindell)

  You cannot ask me to move along, and there is no need to push past me. I am small, and easy to go around. Do not think you can run me off, either; my stool has cracked open a head or two, and I can swing it harder than you might think. But if you like, we can talk like civilized people. You can even borrow my stool; my knees are stiff and sore, and I need to get up every so often to stretch my legs.

  This stool was a gift from a carpenter after many years of discrete service. It has followed me everywhere. I could get another—one with a shinier finish, a more elegant design—but this one reminds me of happier times. He used to sit on it, stretching out his stiff legs so I could brush oil-scented water on his blistered toes with my hair. Then I would undress him, cleanse and massage every part of him, rub with my oil-glazed hands until I had exorcised all the tension from his muscles.

  It is impolite to ask a woman her age; you should know that. I should not even answer: you will think I am a senile old cow escaped from the nursing home a few blocks down. I will tell you what I tell everyone: old enough. Even I cannot explain why I am still alive. It may be because I touched his cold gray skin as the blood returned, or because I am simply too stubborn to die: no one who knew me back then would argue. I have been in more beds than you could ever count; I have watched a delicate, scrawny man who snored, had dirty, callused feet, and who giggled like a little girl after two cups of wine become an emblem on the stained-glass windows of the church around the corner. I could easily pin him to the bed; though he would try to wriggle out of my grasp, he could not escape. But he was patient and simple and kind—the only man I have ever loved, or ever will.

  The night before he died I thought I could save him by clinging to his robes, pulling him down and wrapping my arms and legs around his body to keep him from leaving. He cried when he finally jerked his leg free: I think he wanted to be weighed down, safe in my warm grip. But he left me crouching in the dust, clinging to his sandal, the only piece of him I had left.

  For two days after he died I lay shrouded in blankets on my bed, still clinging to his cast-off sandal, wondering if I should pitch myself into the little stream near the village, let the warm rippling water fill my lungs and carry me off.

  You know the rest: he came back, stayed a while—a celebration. Before he left for good, he leaned over the tablecloth soaked with spilled wine and littered with bread and salt, and kissed me. In a voice I could barely hear over the chatter, he whispered, “I’ll come back for you. Wait for me
.” Then he walked out of the little cottage and was gone.

  I went home and sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, thinking of his warm body beside me, his arm draped across my belly, and waited for a sign. I did not know what to look for, and for a long time birds fluttering outside my window, the clunky wheels of a wagon, led me to throw open the door, expecting to see him come to gather me up. I did not ask for a tree split by lightning or a fiery image in the sky, just something small—an olive leaf blowing against the wind, a patch of grass in the desert sand. I was not choosy.

  I watched for a long time, but saw nothing. Even then I did not lose hope; he had promised, and while few men kept their promises to me, he had always been sincere.

  Of course I could not stay long in that house. I replaced the sheets we’d slept on, scoured the wash basin, scrubbed down every wall, but I could feel him in every corner, could even smell his sweaty hair on the pillow. So I left my home and wandered, losing track of time and distance, dragging this stool behind me in search of some peaceful spot to sit and wait away from the noise and crowds.

  But I have not spent all these years shuffling my feet and waiting around. Walking the earth is not cheap, and I am not fond of spending nights sleeping by heating ducts and wrapped in newspapers. Because men will pay for almost anything, I am always fed and sheltered. Call me faithless if you want—I have heard worse. I will not apologize. The body wants what it wants; in the end it is just bone and meat. Only the soul matters, and in that I am his alone.

  But you cannot wander for so long without loneliness. Some nights it is a gnawing pang in the middle of my chest, dulled only by the tedium of traveling; others I feel a part of me has been hollowed out and filled with sand. After each night’s benefactor has tossed his money on the bedside table and heaved his way back into his saggy checkered trousers, I am left naked in a cocoon of scratchy hotel sheets, watching the narrow strips of sunlight fade through the blinds, wondering if dying might be better than this endless wait.

  I tried to give up once, not long ago. I had spent a sweaty hour under a fat old man, unable to move or breathe. At such times there is little to do but think, and I began to doubt something good would ever come of my patience. I remembered a pink-haired old woman who, trying to be kind, told me his spirit was still with me, though the man was gone. But you cannot feel a spirit’s sweat-drenched skin against your own, lie with it under an olive tree, take its hand and dance to the tune of street musicians. A spirit will not touch its stubbled cheek to yours and whisper into your ear that, no matter how much time passes, it will come back for you. The man made me that promise. But if he intended to return, he would already have come.

  After my customer tiptoed out in the dark, I lay on the cheap, musty mattress, stared at the ceiling, and allowed myself to rest, my heart slowing, lungs sluggish as honey. I felt my body separating from the world, the constant buzz of the small refrigerator fading to a distant hum. As my skin began to cool, the breeze outside became a strong wind, and a rush of warm air penetrated the thin window, washing across my shoulders. Then, a whisper, cloaked by the hissing wind, said, “Breathe.”

  I opened my eyes and gasped as if I had only been holding my breath, and lay awake all night, trembling so violently I shook the bed. The cleaning woman found me the next morning and shooed me away, threatening to call the police. I grabbed my stool by the bedside table and hobbled out of sight, looking for a place to sit and rest, collect myself, decide what to do. Since, in all this time, wandering had brought me no closer to him, I thought I might do better sitting still.

  This corner is a likely place to wait: open, busy in the daytime, but with enough space that I will be easy to spot if anyone is looking. I may be sitting here a very long time. I might even be wrong—it would not be the first time. But I have learned to wait much longer with far less incentive. Only one thing is certain: when he comes, I will pin him down, anchoring him to the earth, my arms and legs wrapped tight around him so he can never squirm away again.

  Smoke And Mirrors

  1

  The paramedics found him face-down on the floor in his small efficiency, a pair of sparely-decorated rooms near the center of town. When they turned him over and the thick horn-rimmed glasses slid off his face, Casey, the older of the two, recognized him immediately. “Aw, Jesus,” he said, and took off his ragged Yankees cap. For the past several years the old man had largely stayed out of sight, appearing only to rescue the occasional child from a burning building or retrieve a kitten from the high branches of an elm tree. But the strong, square jaw, the lone spit-curl dangling over his brow, the blue suit barely concealed by his loose button-up sweater, were unmistakable.

  The old man seemed small, as if they had expected a hulking, barrel-chested giant capable of twirling a station wagon over his head. But his jet-black hair had gone silver, and his powder-blue sweater and tan slacks hung off his withered frame like loose skin. In his right hand they found a silver butterfly-shaped locket engraved with the initials, “LL.” Though he knew it was sacrilege, Smits, the younger man, could not resist opening it. Inside was an old black-and-white photograph: the dead man in younger days, thick and muscular, cradling a woman with wavy black hair and a pillbox hat, his bulging arms wrapped protectively around her. When Casey saw the locket he snatched it away. “Have some respect, for God’s sake,” he said, and folded it back into the corpse’s fingers.

  His body was surprisingly heavy as they lifted him onto the gurney, as if gravity had finally anchored him down and refused to let go. Casey thought of his first trip to the city when he was eight, the blue and red streak passing overhead, the rush of wind that nearly blew his windbreaker off his shoulders. He wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing, if his father had pointed to a low-flying plane trailing a red banner and his imagination had filled in the rest.

  They closed the corpse’s half-open mouth, gently placed his arms at his sides, drew the white sheet over the body. Casey had once read that the heavy sheet could flatten a body’s nose, so out of respect he raised it slightly over the face. After they wound the red canvas straps around the body he held his hat over his heart. Being an atheist, he knew no prayers, so instead he recited the first verse of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Smits had never seen his partner so solemn and did not know what else to do, so he joined in.

  After they delivered the body to the morgue, they went to a tavern just around the corner to get drunk. They did not speak. Smits drew designs in the condensation on his mug, pretending to be fascinated by the hue of the beer in the dim light. Casey glanced at the TV hanging over the bar: a baseball game, plodding into extra innings. Any minute the networks would break the news. He looked around the bar; because it was Wednesday and late in the afternoon, the place was empty except for a fat biker puffing cigar smoke across the bar. The windows were covered and blocked out most of the waning sun, and the bare bulb above the bar winked on and off. It flickered dull and yellow, shrouded in smoke, but he stared at it a long time, wanting to absorb every moment of its fading light.

  2

  The old woman had been sitting at her kitchen table for two days when the network affiliate finally made the announcement. She had hardly moved in all that time, and her back was stiff and sore from the hard wooden chair.

  He knew he was dying; it was his heart, always his heart, the price for years of stunts and miracles. He’d always been adamant about living apart and dying alone; she would have to answer too many questions otherwise. So when she rushed to his side, she did not spoil the moment by arguing. She touched his wrinkled cheek, then reached back and undid the clasp of the locket he had given her long ago. He smiled as she pressed the locket into his clammy palm and closed his fingers around it. His eyes went to the door; she nodded and leaned over to kiss him one last time. Holding her breath to keep from blubbering, she turned her back to him and shut the door behind her, then went home to wait for the news.

  In the end, the newscaster said, he was just a
n ordinary man, mortal as any other.

  She was not surprised when the mayor, his face grave and somber, went on TV and said the city had been duped by a hoodwink artist, his feats accomplished with smoke and mirrors, melodramas staged to entertain bystanders. She was not even surprised when the Ivy-League professor appeared on the evening news, proclaiming him a figment of popular imagination, an excuse to deny responsibility for our actions because he would always be there to save us.

  She sighed, shook her head. Fools, all of them. Of course he was an ordinary man; that was the stunning, humbling beauty of him. She knew it the first time she saw his true face beneath the thick-framed glasses, and if the idiots on TV would just stop talking and think for a minute, they might realize it too.

  3

  The first thing the medical examiner noticed, as he pulled the sheet from the body, was the corpse’s hands, hardly perfect and unblemished: the fingers gnarled from wear, fingertips caked with dirt and ink, palms scarred and thickly callused. His chest was pale and sunken, dotted with thin white hairs that swirled in tiny circles from the nipples up to the shoulders. A dozen indentations the size of bullet-holes marked the protruding ribs. The suit lay in a plastic bag on the floor, a crumpled wad of red and blue.