Lowboy Part 21

"The Musaquontas," said Lowboy. His throat tightened. "The Quiet River."

"That's the one."

"You must be the Dutchman."

The Dutchman took a comb from his pocket and ran it elegantly through his hair.

"I'm Will," Lowboy offered. "William h.e.l.ler. Heather Covington said-"

"All right, Will. Good enough. Let's say that you were going to buy a house." He pointed the comb at Lowboy. "Would you sleep in it first?"

"A house?" Lowboy said. It made him think of his sketches of Emily.

The Dutchman nodded. "Would you sleep in it or buy it right away?"

Lowboy shook his head dumbly. Was it really the Dutchman. He looked outside for an answer but there was nothing to see but the sweating walls and weepholes of the tunnel. No ciphers or bar codes or graffiti. The message was gone could he still recollect it.

"Would I sleep in the house," said Lowboy. He considered the question. Emily's face had turned into a house. "Yes," he said. "I'd sleep in it."

"Good boy." The Dutchman's head slid toward him. "Spend the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n night there. Check it for ectoplasmic activity."

"My mother was a house. So was Emily. I was a piece of paper or a cigarette or a bed."

The Dutchman clucked thoughtfully. "How's Rafa been?"

"Heather Covington," said Lowboy. "She called me 'little baby.' She took me down the tunnel to the bottom of the world and the quilt and the little blue suitcase. I couldn't do it, Dutchman. There was a little white girl in her pa.s.sport. Her name was Heather Covington. Dr. Zizmor was the one who made her black."

"Covington," said the Dutchman. "Good enough."

"That's what she called herself," said Lowboy. "I called her that. I told her about me and Skull and Bones-"

The Dutchman sat up straight. "What do you know about Skull and Bones?"

"I told Heather Covington," Lowboy said, stammering. "I told Rafa-"

"Shut your mouth," said the Dutchman. "I was a member of that dread society."

"Bones is a milkfaced man," said Lowboy. "Not much to look at. Skull is the size of a-"

"They manage the planet," the Dutchman said, nodding. "They make it productive productive. They're the ones making things hot."

A curtain opened as the Dutchman was talking and Lowboy understood the world completely. He remembered a platform, the back of a train, the cool air growing warmer on a curve. Without Skull & Bones he might never have gotten his calling. He'd recognized them as his enemies and had run up the platform's yellow lip and the doors of the train had opened when he kicked them. He couldn't help but take that as a sign. From the moment he'd entered the train he'd been hallowed and exalted and beloved. He'd disappeared into the tunnel like a plug into a socket and the tunnel had given him everything.

"Things aren't getting hotter," said Lowboy. "Not anymore." He pressed his hands against his stomach. "See that, Dutchman? Nothing there. I've had my s.e.x."

The Dutchman blinked at him. "You've had your s.e.x," he said.

Lowboy bobbed his head. "My calling said to let my insides out. An offering it told me or a sacrifice. It happened just this morning. The world was inside me and I was inside of-"

"Jesus Christ Christ," said the Dutchman. He let his head fall back against the window. "Who cares what you've been inside of, little boy?"

A keening came up off the rails or a voice raised in outrage. He made a fist and the train pa.s.sed Eighty-sixth Street. He made two and it pa.s.sed Seventy-seventh. "Tell the truth," he said. "That's not right." His voice was no louder than the keening but he could feel it pus.h.i.+ng up out of his throat. "Tell the truth Dutchman. I was in a burned car and a woman walked past me. She told me I was out of gas and I was. She called me her doggy. She took me to a fivecornered room."

"Not enough," said the Dutchman. His lips barely fluttered. "Not enough." It rang out in the dead air like a bell.

"It was enough," Lowboy said carefully. "It was." They were pa.s.sing Sixty-eighth Street. "I had my s.e.x with her. Later when I woke up it was cold."

"It's six o'clock now," said the Dutchman. He said it without opening his mouth. "You didn't stop anything, William."

"I didn't want things to stop," Lowboy shouted. "Just the temperature games. I wanted to keep things from getting hotter. I wanted to keep the end of the world away."

"It goes on and on," said the Dutchman. He tipped over and his face went sad and soft. "It's too painful."

"It's painful," Lowboy said, nodding. He stopped to catch his breath. "It hurts very much. But it's possible-"

"It's impossible impossible," said the Dutchman. "One day your body understands that. Then you die."

Lowboy watched as the Dutchman got smaller and smaller. He was lying on his side now humming quietly to himself. Is he dying, Lowboy wondered. Is he falling asleep. The train pulled into Fortysecond Street and the C# and A sounded and no one got on.

"You're wrong," Lowboy said to him. "I disagree."

The train bucked forward suddenly and the tunnel fell back and the express track came and kissed the track beneath them. The keening filled the car like a fog or a color but also like the first note of an opera. Lowboy went to the doors and looked out at the tracks and saw the glittering waterway between them. A river whose name he'd long since forgotten. An express train went by with a person at each window and none of them seemed to be dying. I disagree, Lowboy thought. It's not impossible. For the first time since the world hadn't ended he tried to imagine Violet and the trains waiting to take him to her house. Not impossible, he said under his breath. At Bleecker Street I can switch to the uptown F. He bent down to tell the Dutchman but the Dutchman was the size of a receipt. The train shot through Twenty-third Street without stopping. People rolled their eyes and s.h.i.+vered and made faces. People shrieked and laughed and stepped out of their clothes.

At Union Square the Dutchman left the train. He dropped to the floor and glanced over his shoulder and skittered up the aisle like a mouse. He's not dead, Lowboy thought. He's not dead and it's not impossible. He sat on the bench with his face to the window and watched the Dutchman disappear into the crowd. The keening had stopped and he felt almost hopeful. The crowd on the platform surprised him a little but he reminded himself that it was six a.m. Violet would be getting up soon unless he'd made some sort of error or she'd died. Maybe she hadn't ever gone to bed. He pictured her in the kitchenette, hair sticking up like a schoolboy's, frying onions and garlic in b.u.t.ter. Her face was the color of soap but that was perfectly all right. It was always that color first thing in the morning. "Transfer at Fulton Street," he said out loud. "Switch to the uptown platform, then five stops close together on the C." That's all it was.

Would she be getting up now, would she be taking her meds, would she be sliding her legs out from under her rustcolored sheets. Would she be muttering to herself, would she slip sideways out of bed, would she throw open the curtains and pick out one of his father's records, would she put it on carefully and smile for a minute and make Turkish coffee in the blue enamel pot. Would she make scrambled eggs and bacon and rye toast. Would she hum out of key to the music, would she change clothes in the hallway or the kitchenette or the bathroom, would she make a face at herself in the mirror as she went by. Would she tap at his door lightly with two fingers, would she come in a moment later, would she choose clothes for him to wear and lay them out across his bed, boxers socks T-s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.tondown corduroys sweater, would she squint at them for a while then change her mind. Would she lay a palm against his forehead to wake him. Would she give him a moment then tug gently on his ear. Would she laugh at him then. Would she call him Professor. Would she seem sorry to have woken him at all.

When he opened his eyes the train still hadn't left. There were people in the car now and some of them were close enough to touch. That was no problem either. He was about to let his eyes shut to make time go faster when he saw Heather Covington shuffling down the uptown platform like someone searching for a missing pet.

The doors slid closed a moment later but by then he was halfway up the stairs. He had news for Heather Covington she'd be very glad to hear it. Union Square Station, he said under his breath. It had always been his favorite on the line. There were too many people on the stairs and when he looked back at the platform Heather Covington was gone. Once he would have been careful not to touch anyone but now it couldn't be helped there were so many of them scratching and stumbling and rus.h.i.+ng to get to the train. He remembered at Columbus Circle how the crowd had spun him slowly clockwise. So much simpler and more beautiful than deciding. I'll go back there, he thought. I'll take Violet tomorrow. Then the last man pushed past him and he came to the top of the stairs.

When he reached the uptown platform Heather Covington was there. The curving track conjoined them like a carousel. The rails clacked and whistled: a flat childish music as if from a calliope. She was at the far end of the platform making for the uptown tunnel. Her feet were bare her s.h.i.+rt was bunched and tattered. Miss Covington, he shouted. He ran up the platform's corrugated lip. Rafa, he called to her. Listen to me Rafa. I've had my s.e.x.

The tunnel puckered like a mouth as she came near it and Lowboy started to worry. People were in his way but he ignored them. I did a good job Rafa, he shouted. The tags told me so. Slow down Miss Covington. The world can stop ending. But then he ran right into Skull & Bones.

He ran into them from behind and he was past them before he saw what he had done. They blinked sleepily at him as he went by, stupid and unsurprised, and caught up with him in three unhurried steps. Have they been expecting me, he wondered. Have they been waiting all this time. They were dressed in tight black uniforms like n.a.z.is and their silent movie softshoe had been neatly put aside. Their names suited them now. They wore their names like hats. They circled him like two cats around a bird, heavy and lazy and indifferent, never coming close enough to touch him. He couldn't explain it. He felt the old fear climbing saplike through his body from the soles of his feet where it had long been stockpiled and he opened his mouth and gave a little cough. He stopped and retched and Skull & Bones kept circling. His fear made the world happen slowly. The crowd behind him rustled like a sheet. As he looked up the platform he heard his name said in a whisper. Is that you William h.e.l.ler. Is that William. Is that Will.

It's me, he said. Yes. Is that you Emily. He spun around in a circle and picked her face out of the crowd. It was easy to find her. She wasn't the new Emily or the old Emily either but the one that he'd drawn pictures of at school. A circle with two lines on top of it. A house with a hairy roof. Come here to me, he said. We're not done talking. She took three steps and stopped at the edge of the crowd. He smiled at her and tried to see her better. I'm sorry Emily, he said. Next time I'll do my best to draw you better.

I thought there was a calling Emily. I thought there had to be. Why else was I born if not for that. Dutchman said life is impossible but not if there's a reason. There has to be a reason Emily. Otherwise why this sickness. Without it there's only running away and kissing you and pus.h.i.+ng you downstairs. There's only poor sick Will gone up to heaven. Thank G.o.d there was a calling Emily. Thank G.o.d about the air. There was a reason and I asked you to help me with my body and you tried. I tried with you. You kissed me on the mouth to make it colder. Thank you Emily. Please don't go flat. If not a calling then at least there was your name.

After she was gone he walked into the crowd without bothering to look for Skull & Bones. The fear was sputtering and screaming in his ears but he made up his mind not to pay attention. Most faces in the crowd were strange to him and badly drawn but many more were known to him by sight. Dr. Fleisig was there with Dr. Prekopp beside him and Baby and the laughing brownskinned nurses from the school. Officer Martinez and the sad-eyed dandy from St. Jeb's Buy & Barter and Jonathan Zizmor and the man with the Jamaican beef patty and the women from the dirty magazine. Quick & Painless and Secretary and the man in the gold satin jacket. A flatness over everything like a blacklight. No one answered his greeting. On a bench by a payphone his grandfather sat reading the New York Daily Daily News News. Air was mustering on the platform and the paper snapped and buckled. The tracks on Lowboy's left began to sigh. He looked back the way he'd come and every face that he saw was familiar. All of them waiting for the ghost train to arrive. Everyone was there but Violet.

Where's Violet, Lowboy shouted. No one moved or breathed or said a word. Where's Violet, he mumbled. Expecting no answer. But a voice rang out behind him and the crowd fell back like crabs before a wave. That voice alone had not been improvised.

"Violet's here," the voice said. "She's upstairs." Lowboy followed the sound to an old black man talking. A schoolteacherly man in a herringbone jacket. Skull & Bones behind him sharpening their teeth.

"Give her a message," said Lowboy. "Tell her something from me." He held his hands out like a prisoner. "I figured out the reason I was born."

"You can tell her yourself," said the man. The air pulled back from him as he stepped forward. "Come upstairs with me, Will. Your mother's sick."

"I know what my mother is." He craned his neck to watch the ghost train coming. He thought about Violet and her sickness and her accent and her orthopedic shoes. He thought about her apartment with its bright red walls and Chinatown lamps and pictures from Interview Interview and and National Geographic National Geographic and and Vogue Vogue. He remembered her impatience and her dirty mouth and the way she had of misremembering sayings. He remembered We don't have all the tea in China We don't have all the tea in China.

"I'll tell her," he mumbled, putting his hands down. "I'll tell her something." Then the man bent over and took him in his arms.

The ghost train came up behind them. "Easy," the man said in his kindly black voice. "Nice and easy," he said. He said it kindly and blackly. Was he talking to Lowboy now or to himself. Lowboy let his arms hang and flutter and his feet followed sorrowfully behind. Emily had held him there and kissed him. Where is Violet, he shouted. No one answered. He remembered what Emily had whispered to him on that last unforgivable afternoon.

It's got to happen sometime, Will. It happens to every person in the world.

The noise of the express train blew out of the tunnel as Lowboy brought his mouth to the man's cheek and bit it. There was no hearing anything else. He tasted blood on his teeth and the arms let him loose and his shoeheels. .h.i.t the platform's slotted edge. The man's hands clutched his sleeves but he slipped out of his sweater like a fish. The man looked down at him in awe. His thin red mouth opened and shut. Skull & Bones came past him then but the express came past him faster. It came in as fast as the ghost train before it and made every living creature catch its breath. Why was I born, Lowboy thought. I know why. He made a face and took a slow step backward. On November 12 the world ended by fire.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Jin Auh, Eric Chinski, Brooke Costello, Cop Talk Cop Talk by E. W. Count, by E. W. Count, Crazy All the Time Crazy All the Time by Frederick L. Covan, MD, by Frederick L. Covan, MD, Tell Me I'm Here Tell Me I'm Here by Anne Deveson, Matt Dojny, Doug Dibbern, Eli Greenberg, MD, by Anne Deveson, Matt Dojny, Doug Dibbern, Eli Greenberg, MD, The The Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders IV, Subway Lives Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders IV, Subway Lives by Jim Dwyer, by Jim Dwyer, Jazz in the Sixties Jazz in the Sixties by Leonard Feather, by Leonard Feather, Stranger to the System Stranger to the System by Jim Flynn and Nelson Hall, Alex Halberstadt, William Hall, s.h.i.+rley Hazzard, Edward Henderson, MD, Corin Hewitt, Chloe Hooper, Cheryl Huber, by Jim Flynn and Nelson Hall, Alex Halberstadt, William Hall, s.h.i.+rley Hazzard, Edward Henderson, MD, Corin Hewitt, Chloe Hooper, Cheryl Huber, The Encyclopedia of New York City The Encyclopedia of New York City by Kenneth T. Jackson, Kirsten Kea.r.s.e, Peter Knecht, Jay Ko, MD, Steven Koch, William Lubart, PhD, by Kenneth T. Jackson, Kirsten Kea.r.s.e, Peter Knecht, Jay Ko, MD, Steven Koch, William Lubart, PhD, The Psychiatric Interview in Clinical Practice The Psychiatric Interview in Clinical Practice by Roger MacKinnon, Haruki Murakami, by Roger MacKinnon, Haruki Murakami, Children with Emerald Eyes Children with Emerald Eyes by Mira Rothenburg, by Mira Rothenburg, Memoirs of My Nervous Illness Memoirs of My Nervous Illness by Daniel Paul Schreber, by Daniel Paul Schreber, Autobiography of a Schizophrenic Girl Autobiography of a Schizophrenic Girl by Marguerite Sechehaye, Akhil Sharma, by Marguerite Sechehaye, Akhil Sharma, The Code Book The Code Book by Simon Singh, by Simon Singh, Transit Transit Talk Talk by Robert W. Snyder, Adrian Tomine, by Robert W. Snyder, Adrian Tomine, Surviving Schizophrenia Surviving Schizophrenia and and Nowhere to Go Nowhere to Go by E. Fuller Torrey, MD, Jared Whitham, by E. Fuller Torrey, MD, Jared Whitham, This This Stranger, My Son Stranger, My Son by Louise Wilson, Barbara Wunschmann-Henderson, PhD, Peter Wunschmann, Andrew Wylie. by Louise Wilson, Barbara Wunschmann-Henderson, PhD, Peter Wunschmann, Andrew Wylie.

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