But now, on this grim winter’s night, while Walter lucubrated and Jessica turned her thoughts to Holothurians, Tom Crane was pulling on his pink suede lace-up boots (with the unfortunate smirches of motor oil he’d tried to remove by applying a solution of carbon tetrachloride and high-test gasoline) and slipping into the houndstooth bellbottoms that hugged his bony knees and made racing chocks of his feet. He was grabbing for the aviator’s coat and mummy-wrapping the scarf around his neck, heading out the door, suffused with an excitement that made his long bony feet tap across the porch as if they’d come loose: he was going to a concert. A rock concert. A wild, joyous, jungle-thumping celebration of nubility, rebelliousness, draft resistance, drug indulgence, sexual liberation and libidinous release. He’d been waiting three whole days for it.
The sky was low, black, rippled with cloud, and the warming trend of the past few days had pushed the mercury all the way up to fifteen above. He had to feel his way out to the road, the thin jerky beam of the flashlight so weak it could do little more than satisfy his curiosity as to which quivering, low-hanging branch had poked him in the eye or grabbed hold of the frayed tail of his scarf. It was half a mile down the stony, concave path to Van Wart Creek and the wooden footbridge erected by some altruist in times gone by, and then another quarter mile or so across a marshy pasture that was home to grazing cows and dotted like a minefield with their skillet-sized puddles of excrement. The path then wound through a copse of naked beech and thick-clustered fir, ascended a short rise and finally emerged on the motionless black river of macadam that was Van Wart Road.
(So what if it was a regular and tedious trek out to or in from the road, made all the more tedious when the trekker was laden with bursting sacks of lentil flakes, pinto beans or bran pellets? The remoteness of the place had its advantages. A hero of the people and saint of the forest could expect few visitors, for example, or representatives of the duly constituted authorities of the county and township, like the assessor, inspectors from the Department of Building and Safety or the sheriff and his minions. Nor would he be much bothered by drummers, panhandlers, Avon ladies and Jehovah’s Witnesses, as these, passing by on the road, would see only an infinity of trees, each one adumbrating the next. For the initiated, however, for his privileged guests, Tom Crane had provided the Packard hubcap. If you slowed in the vicinity of a certain diseased-looking elm that was one-tenth of a mile beyond a certain breached guardrail, and you recognized the hubcap depending from a nail driven into the trunk of that certain elm, you would park and walk in: Tom was at home. If the hubcap was on the ground, you needn’t bother.)
Out on the road, Tom removed his deerskin gloves—one of sixteen pairs his father had inadvertently bequeathed him. He’d found them, some still wrapped in gift paper that featured snowmen and candy canes, while poking around in his father’s bureau the week after his parents’ first vacation in twenty years had been terminated by pilot error somewhere over San Juan. He stuffed the gloves inside the belt loop of his aviator’s coat, slipped the all-but-useless flashlight in the back pocket of his bellbottoms, and removed the Packard hubcup from the tree. Then he blew on his hands and turned to address the long black shadow that stretched along the side of the road like the mouth of an unfathomable cave.
This was the Packard itself, a relic of the distant past, painted the color of sleep and forgetfulness and pitted with rust. Its windows were jammed open, the brakes were a memory and the floorboards had dissolved in a delicate tracery that left the pedals floating in space while the road moved beneath them like a conveyor belt. A genuine artifact, as revealing in its way of previous civilization as the arrowhead or potsherd, the old hulk had been unearthed the previous year in the shed out back of his grandfather’s place. The elder Crane had owned a succession of Packards, and this, dating from the late forties, was the last of them. (“They went bad after the War,” the old man insisted, real vehemence inflating the flanges of his magnificent nose. “Junk. Nothing but junk.”) Now it was Tom’s.
Working by rote, he struggled to lift and brace the hood and then remove the air filter. He was in the act of spraying ether into what he took in the darkness to be the carburetor when he first spotted the flying saucer. Trembling and luminous, it jerked violently across the sky, coming to an abrupt halt directly above him, where it hovered tentatively, as if looking for a place to land. Tom froze. He watched the thing without apprehension and with a keen sciential eye (it was saucer-shaped, all right, and emitting a pale, rinsed-out light), surprised, but only mildly. He believed in clairvoyance, reincarnation, astrology and the economic theories of Karl Marx, and as he stood there, he could feel his belief system opening up to include an unshakable faith in the existence of extraterrestrial life as well. Still, after ten minutes or so his neck began to go stiff, and he found himself wishing that this marvelous apparition would do something—spit flames, open up like an eye, turn to mud or jelly—anything but hover interminably over his head. It was then that he reached surreptitiously for the flashlight he’d tucked in his back pocket, thinking in a vague way of signaling to the aliens in Morse code or something.
No sooner did he touch the flashlight, however, than the shadow of a great hand obliterated the alien spacecraft; when he released it, the wily aliens returned, hovering as before. He began to feel a little foolish. He stood there playing with the flashlight a minute more, then sent the saucer hurtling to its doom in the inky black reaches of space and turned back to the car. The old hulk started up with a volcanic roar and a brilliant explosion of blue flame from the carburetor; the saint of the forest hustled out to replace the air filter and slam the hood shut. And then he was off with a shriek of the steering wheel and a groan of the tires, off to pour his soul into the Dionysian frenzy of the concert.
The concert, which featured a well-known underground band whose members invested every nickel of their take in preferred stock, was held in Poughkeepsie, in the Vassar College gymnasium. Tom presented his ticket and shuffled through the doors with the rest of the sloe-eyed, hirsute, bead-rattling crowd, glad to get in out of the cold. He was unaware that Poughkeepsie was an Algonquin term meaning “safe harbor,” but then no one else in the crowd was aware of it either. In fact, there were few who had any grasp at all of the notion that history had preceded them. They knew, in an abstract way, about Thanksgiving and the pilgrims, about Washington, Lincoln, Hitler and John F. Kennedy, about the Depression—could their parents ever let them forget it?—and they dimly recalled the construction of the local shopping center in some distant formative epoch of their lives. But it was all disconnected, trivial, the sort of knowledge useful in the sixth grade for multiple-choice tests or for scoring the odd answer on a TV quiz show. What was real, what mattered, was the present. And in the present, they and they alone were ascendant—they’d invented sex, hair, marijuana and the electric guitar, and civilization began and ended with them.
Be that as it may, the saint of the forest entered the auditorium that night like a sloop coming in off a choppy sea. The cold wind at his back blew the scarf up around his ears like a luffing sail and a full-body shiver shook him to the gunwales. He stamped and shuddered and quaked, his elbows flying out like quivering booms, as he inched forward, boxed in by shoulders and heads, by greatcoats, army jackets and fringed vests. There was the scent of cold air on upturned collars, trailing from scarves, caught in the vegetal explosion of hair, but it faded quickly, absorbed in the warmth of the crowd. A moment later he was in, the mob dispersing, the big electric heaters wafting tropical breezes, soft lights overhead, a murmur of voices rippling about him like wavelets lapping the pier.
All at once he felt it welling up in him, a sense of exhilaration, of love as pure as Himalayan snow, of brotherhood and communal joy akin to what Gandhi must have felt among the unwashed hordes of Delhi or Lahore. He’d been a hermit too long (it was almost two weeks now), too long out of contact with the energy of the people and the élan vital of the age. Besides, he hadn’t been
within two feet of a girl since September, when Amy Clutterbuck had let him hold her hand in a darkened movie house in Ithaca. And now he was surrounded by them.
Here a blonde, there a blonde, everywhere a blonde, blonde, he clucked to himself as he made his way to the bleachers and mounted the levels with big, pumping, awkward strides. God, this was great! The smells alone! Perfume, incense, pot, tobacco, Sen-Sen! He was nearly dizzy with excitement as he appropriated a seat midway up the near bleacher, flung himself onto the cold hard plank and coincidentally thrust his knees into the back of the girl in front of him. But it wasn’t merely a thrust—the long shanks of his legs may as well have been spring-coiled, the fierce whittled bones of his kneecaps could have been knives—no, it was a savage piercing stab to the victim’s kidneys that made her jerk upright in shock and swing around on him like a Harpy.
He saw a small white face devoured by hair, eyes like violets under glass, a crease of rage between a pair of perfect unplucked eyebrows. “What the fuck’s the idea?” she spat, the force of the fricative stirring the very roots of his beard.
“I—I—I—” he began, as if he were about to sneeze. But then he got hold of himself and launched into an apology so profound, so heartfelt, fawning and all-reaching that it might have mollified Ho Chi Minh himself. He concluded by offering a stick of gum. Which she accepted.
“Long legs, huh?” she said, showing her teeth in a rich little smile.
He nodded, the sharp Crane beak stabbing at the air and the ratty braid of his hair flapping at his collar. Was he from around here? she. wanted to know. No, he was from Peterskill, just quit school at Cornell—it was a real drag, did she know what he meant?—and had his own place now, really cool, out in the woods.
“Peterskill?” she yelped. “No kidding?” She was from Van Wartville herself. Yup, born and raised. Went to private school. She was at Bard now. Did he have a car?
He did.
She wouldn’t mind going home for the weekend, maybe blowing off her Monday classes and getting her father to drive her back up. Would that be okay with him—a ride maybe?
He nodded till his neck began to ache, grinned so hard the corners of his mouth went numb. Sure, of course, no problem, any time. “I’m Tom Crane,” he said, holding out his hand.
She shook, and her hand was as cold as one of the innumerable, dumb-staring perch he’d cut open in Bio lab. “I’m Mardi,” she said.
He was about to say something inane, just to keep the conversation going, something like “I’m a Libra,” but just then the lights went down and the emcee announced the band. That was when things began to get peculiar. Because instead of the band, with their ragged hair and sneers, suddenly there was another character at the microphone—a dean or something, in suit and tie-announcing in a voice that was almost a yelp that there’d been an accident and asking for the crowd’s cooperation. People began to look around them. A murmur went up. It seemed that someone—a gatecrasher—had attempted to slip in through one of the great long windows that ran the length of each wall and stood about twenty feet above the floor. The gatecrasher had climbed in, hung for a moment from the ledge and then dropped down into the crowd. Or so the dean explained.
The murmur became louder. Was he—a representative of the warmongering elite—asking them, the audience, the people, to turn in one of their own? To fink, rat, betray? Tom was thunderstruck. He studied the crown of Mardi’s head, the part of her hair, the slope of her shoulders, in growing outrage. But no. That wasn’t it at all. The gatecrasher had been hurt. His ring had hung up on the window catch when he dropped to the floor: the ring, along with the finger it had encircled, had been torn from his hand. Would the audience take a minute to search for the finger so that it might be saved?
The murmur rose to a shout. They were on their feet now, and a great sound of shuffling and groaning pervaded the place, as of a vast herd in migratory movement; panic was writ on their faces. Somewhere out there, in a lap or handbag or ground beneath somebody’s heel, was a bleeding finger, still-living flesh: it was enough to make you get down on all fours and bay like a hound. Tom felt sick, all the joy and exhilaration gone out of him like wind from a balloon. There was a general moaning and gnashing of teeth. “There’s no cause for panic!” the dean was shouting through the microphone, but no one seemed to hear him.
Mardi had stood fixedly through all of this, one step down from the saint of the forest, her eyes scanning the crowd. Now she turned to him, fanning out her hair with a reflexive jerk of her neck, and there it was, the finger. It fell, like a pale grub, from the snarled web of her hair and dropped to the seat beside her. “There!” Tom shouted, pointing at the seat in horror and fascination. “There it is!” She glanced down. And up at him. The expression on her face—she wasn’t appalled, disgusted, panicked, didn’t scream or dance on her toes—was like nothing Tom had ever seen. Or no: it was feral. She was a cat and this bit of flesh was something she’d prized from a nest or a hole in a tree. A smile began to make its slow way across her lips, until amidst the confusion, the howls and the uneasy fits and starts of laughter with which the place reverberated like some chamber of doom, she was beaming at him. “We cannot start the concert,” the dean was shouting, but Mardi paid no attention. Still beaming, still holding Tom’s eyes, she bent ever so slightly from the waist and flicked the finger into the shadowy maw of the bleacher.
Patrimony
It was as if Walter had awakened from a long sleep, as if the past twenty-odd years were the illusion, and this—the dreams and visions, history and its pertinacity—the reality. He couldn’t be sure of anything any more. All the empirical underpinnings of the world—Boyle’s Law, Newtonian physics, doctrines of evolution and genetic inheritence, TV, gravity, the social contract, merde—had suddenly become suspect. His grandmother had been right all along. His grandmother—the fisherman’s wife, with the stockings fallen down around her ankles and her faintly mustachioed upper lip rising and falling in ceaseless incantation—had perceived the world more keenly than philosophers and presidents, pharmacists and ad men. She’d seen through the veil of Maya—seen the world for what it was—a haunted place, where anything could happen and nothing was as it seemed, where shadows had fangs and doom festered in the blood. Walter felt he might float off into space, explode like a sweet potato left too long in the oven, grow hair on his palms or turn to grape jelly. Why not? If there were apparitions, shadows on dark roadways, voices speaking in the rootless night, why not imps and goblins, God, St. Nick, UFOs and pukwidjinnies too?
He left the hospital on a sunstruck morning in August, and the first thing he did—before he had a beer or monster burger with pickle, relish, mayonnaise, mustard and three-star chili sauce, before he hustled Jessica up to his room above the kitchen to finish what he’d begun on the hard flat institutional bed in the East Wing—was this: he went back and read the inscription on the road sign, as the bare-foot specter of his father had advised him. Jessica drove. She wore a shift that was made of the filmy stuff of lingerie, she wore sandals, jewelry, makeup, perfume. Walter watched the trees flit by the window, one after another, in endless unbroken succession, a green so intense he had to shield his eyes; Jessica hummed along with the radio. She was effusive, lighthearted, gay and unconstrained; he was subdued and withdrawn. She prattled on about wedding plans, told jokes, fumbled with the gilt foil on the neck of the bottle of Móet et Chandon clenched between her thighs and filled him in on people they knew—Hector, Tom Crane, Susie Cats—as if he’d been gone a year. He didn’t have much to say.
The sign—the historical marker, that is—had barely been damaged by Walter’s assault on it. The stanchion was gouged where the footpeg had hit it and the whole thing was tilted back a degree or two so that the legend could most comfortably be perused from the lower branches of the maple across the street, but basically Walter was much more the worse for wear than the instrument of his mutilation. That much he could see from the car window as they pulled up on the sho
ulder. Emerging from the passenger side of Jessica’s VW like a crab shrugging off its shell, he braced himself on his crutches—every time he put his weight on the still-tender stump of his right leg it felt as if it were on fire—and hobbled up to decipher the sign that had become for him as momentous and mysterious as the Sinai tablets must have been for the tribes of Israel. He could have asked Jessica or Lola or Tom Crane to go have a look at it while he lay helpless in bed, tormented by the image of his father and the brutal commingling of dream and reality, but he preferred it this way. After all, he hadn’t hit a tree, mailbox, fireplug or lamppost, but a sign—symbol, token and signifier—yes, a sign, and it might as well have been inscribed with hieroglyphs for all the attention he’d paid it in the past. There was a message here. He yearned for enlightenment.
It was hot. The end of summer. Cars shot past with a suck of air. There was no blood, no oil slick on the road—just the sign, with its gouge. He read:
On this spot in 1693, Cadwallader Crane, leader of an armed uprising on Van Wart Manor, surrendered to authorities. He was hanged, along with co-conspirator Jeremy Mohonk, at Gallows Hill, Van Wartville, in 1694.
He read, but he was not enlightened. He stood there like a man of stone, conning it over, word by word. And then, after a long moment during which he cursed his dreams, his father and the state historical society, he swung around on his crutches and stumped back to the car.
At home—the world had shifted beneath his feet, changed as surely and irrevocably as if it had been hit by a comet or visited by a delegation of three-headed aliens from Alpha Centauri, and yet here all was the same, right down to the muted bands of sunlight that fell across the Turkish carpet like a benediction and the twin lamps with shades the color and texture of ancient parchment—Walter stood awkwardly in the middle of the cluttered den and gave himself up to Lola’s sinewy embrace. The paneled walls were still hung with the dim sepia photos of Lola’s parents in their Moldavian overcoats, galoshes and fur hats; the black-and-whites of Walter in his Little League uniform; the overexposed snapshot of Lola and Walter’s mother as high school girls, their hair long, arms entwined; and the turgid official portrait of Lenin that occupied the place of honor over the mantelpiece. The cane plant in the corner was still dead and the empty aquarium still crusted with a jagged layer of petrified sludge. On the bookshelves, amidst the faded spines and crumbling dust jackets of books that hadn’t been moved for as long as Walter could remember, crouched the ceramic tigers and elephants, the ivory rooks and knights and pawns he’d played with as a boy, all exactly as he’d left them on that distant morning of the potato pancakes. He’d been gone two weeks to the day. Everything was the same, and everything was changed. “Well,” Lola said. “Well. You’re back.”