A Book of American Martyrs(74)
“The ‘impersonal’ is our salvation. It is where we all meet—it breaks the solitude of the self.”
Darren wanted to believe this. But his skin chafed with grief, and fury at this grief; his heart was an open wound. Much of the time he was thinking—without knowing what he was thinking—that his father he’d loved had betrayed him.
Yet there was the possibility, somewhere in the night sky—It has not happened yet, on one of those stars.
In his favorite graphic novel titled ZeroTimeZero time was sliced into strips winding through the universe. There were fleets of vast space cruisers the size of the Queen Mary filled with individuals seeking their lost lives. Something had gone wrong, time had become fragmented and slivered and no longer linear. It was perfectly plausible in such a universe that something that was past tense on one planet was future tense on another. The same individual was dead, alive, not-yet-born simultaneously.
You could search through distant galaxies in one of the space cruisers, for eternity. What kept you going was the faith that whatever you sought existed, somewhere.
VOICE MAIL
She would not return to the rented farmhouse on Salt Hill Road for some time. She would not bring the children until it was unavoidable—of course they had to retrieve their belongings, their clothes. There were documents, legal and financial records. There were (never unpacked) boxes of books. They had to “close up” the house for which the widow of Gus Voorhees was still obliged to pay monthly rent though the thought of living in the house again was vile and repugnant to her as if her husband had died in the house and not hundreds of miles away.
Seeing the cheerless house from the road they were paralyzed with dread. Melissa began to whimper, Jenna groped for the little girl’s mittened hand to comfort her. In the backseat Darren whispered what sounded like Jesus! Fuck. Naomi was very still.
“Wouldn’t you wonder who might live in such a place? Why would anyone live in such a place?”
In the aftermath of our father’s death it was like our mother to make such remarks as if she were thinking out loud. We understood that her questions were not true questions but Naomi ventured an answer.
“People have to live somewhere, Mom.”
“Exactly! Until one day they don’t.”
Our mother didn’t have a plan for us to begin moving from the house that day. She had failed to bring packing boxes or suitcases. She had not discussed the house with us as she had not discussed the future with us except in the most pragmatic of terms—next week, tomorrow. Day after tomorrow. The house on Salt Hill Road she referred to tersely as the house in the country. It seemed to the older children (who monitored their mother’s behavior covertly) that in speaking of the house in the country Jenna sometimes did not recall the actual name of the township, the road.
As we would hear our mother speak of my husband as if she’d forgotten or mislaid our father’s name or found the name too painful to speak as it was too painful to hear.
In a pleading voice, Naomi said, “We’re not getting out, Mom—are we? Nothing has been plowed.”
Our mother laughed. It was a sound like breaking twigs.
“Did you imagine we would drive this distance to sit in the car? Of course we’re getting out.”
With great effort we made our way through the snow, that came to our knees; even Melissa was not allowed to remain in the warm car but had to come with us, fitting her tiny booted feet in the impressions made by our larger boots. (“I can’t let you stay in the car with the motor running. There’s a danger of toxic fumes.”)
It was a misty winter afternoon. You could not have said if you were fully awake or whether this was the continuation of a dream. All color was bleached to the hue of bone marrow except for the rust-red of a few wizened crab apples on stunted trees beside the house. Darren had gone first to help clear the way for the others and on the back steps he stamped his feet hard, and kicked at the snow. His face was tight-knotted, furious. Clumps of snow fell from the farmhouse roof onto our heads.
“Give me the key, Mom. Christ!”
Darren forced the door open, that led into the kitchen. More snow fell from above. Naomi who’d had difficulty sleeping since her father’s death half-shut her eyes seeing (not for the first time but more vividly than usual) a snowy-white bird, a predator-bird, in this case an owl, beak and talons shining, swooping at her face.
Naomi had learned to cringe protectively from such (feigned) assaults without actually—literally—cringing so that others could see. It was a skill she’d newly developed, in which she took the most pathetic pride.
“Just go inside, Darren. We’re right behind you.”
Our mother nudged Darren forward. Naomi and Melissa followed.
The interior of the old farmhouse appeared to be considerably colder than the outside air. The rooms appeared to be smaller—(Naomi was put in mind of rooms in a dollhouse, except in this case there were not dolls but human inhabitants). The rooms were untidy as if a strong wind had blown through them. A scrim of pathos hung over all. (Naomi tried not to think—Somebody has died here.)
No one wanted to go upstairs. Many of his clothes remained, he had not taken them with him to Ohio. Pairs of shoes, useless and terrible to behold.
In the bottom drawer of a bureau, a jumble of heavy woolen hiking socks. An old wallet, leather worn thin and inside, a very old U-M ID card. Augustus Voorhees U-M Medical School.