We Are the Light(25)

I just listen curiously to her now during the Sunday calls, while watching the minute arm of the kitchen clock descend from the twelve to the six, at which point, I’ll interrupt her and say, “It was really great speaking with you tonight, Mom, but I have to go.” She’ll protest and accuse me of not loving her and putting her “on the clock.” And she’ll try to guilt me into listening for longer. But I’ll remind myself that I’ve got a boy to initiate into manhood. And the phallic energy of that mission will make me sit up a little more erect, at which point I’ll cut Mother off and say, “Talk next week,” before I hang up and resist the urge to answer when she immediately calls back.

Sometimes Jill will be standing there in the kitchen when I finish. She’ll always give me an astonished look and say something like, “Someone should give you a medal for calling that woman once a week.” I’ll shrug and break eye contact. At which point Jill will usually say, “You’re a good man, Lucas Goodgame.” Then she’ll pour herself a glass of wine and leave me to process the call. Sometimes I sit right there all alone at the kitchen table for an entire silent hour, doing nothing but recovering.

I have never felt like a good man after speaking with my mother.

Never.

Not even once.

I’ve tried to speak with winged Darcy about these phone calls but she isn’t talking all that much with me anymore, to be honest. She still wraps me in her wings and holds me nightly. She’s still shedding feathers, which I keep collecting in my ziplock bags. I keep those in Darcy’s third dresser drawer, where she stacks her neatly folded sweaters. But I can sort of feel Darcy transforming more and more into an angel—meaning she’s less and less of a human being, less and less my wife. I’m beginning to understand that my time with winged Darcy is finite and an internal countdown of sorts has begun.

I’ve been tempted to speak with Jill about this, especially since she keeps saying I can tell her anything and that she absolutely wants me to confide in her. Jill insists she will never betray my confidence, even though she already sort of did, by telling Isaiah about the monster movie before the big reveal at the library. I’ll tell you all about that in the next letter, because I’m getting kind of sleepy and still have to spend time with Darcy up in my bedroom with the door locked.

Karl, Karl, Karl.

I thought I’d try once more to make you suddenly appear like Iron John. Maybe it will prompt you to write me back, or call or simply knock on my door one day. You don’t have to bring the metaphorical equivalent of a horse and armor and an army of brother warriors, because I am providing those things for myself and Eli too.

I think you should be very proud of me—and yourself too, of course.

But don’t you want to see the fruits of your labor firsthand?

Karl, Karl, Karl.

I’m calling.

Can you hear me?

Your most loyal analysand,

Lucas





9.


Dear Karl,

On the night of our pitch meeting with The Survivors, Jill drove Eli and me to the library so that we’d arrive forty-five minutes before the presentation was set to begin. We didn’t want to risk any early birds prematurely seeing the monster. Eli was already in costume—booties, gloves, mask, and all—only we’d covered him in a white sheet with two holes cut out for eyes, so that he could see. He looked like a classic little-kid ghost—an easy Halloween costume.

Eli kept saying he was hot. He said sweat was pooling in his booties. And he mused about needing to break in the monster costume some more, asking, “Why didn’t we think of that earlier?” And perhaps a million times, he said, “Maybe we can strategically cut in some heat vents—which the feathers would keep hidden, of course—because it’s just brutal in here.”

Jill kept saying that we were going to draw just as much attention with the sheet as we would have with the feathered monster man on full display, but Eli and I argued that it was all about the art of surprise and that we were going to employ showmanship and really sell the pitch, which made Jill say, “Okay,” in a way that was more I’m rooting for you two than You two are crazy. Eli and I both appreciated the positivity, but what really gave me confidence on the ride to the library was seeing Darcy up above in the cloud-filled sky, leading the way to our destiny. Her giant wings were flapping powerfully and gorgeously as she soared above Main Street. I couldn’t believe that no one else was seeing her up there in the early evening air, because this was the first time I had ever seen her in sunlight, which I had previously thought was impossible. I wanted to scream at everyone we saw on the streets, yelling, “LOOK UP! IT’S AMAZING! YOU WILL BE HEALED!” And in the magic-hour light, my wife truly was something to behold. But a voice deep within said with great authority, “Winged Darce is for you and you alone,” which centered me. And so I somehow kept my mouth shut and soon enough we were there, parked in the Majestic library parking lot.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” Jill asked, which was when Eli popped a fist-shaped feathered hand out from under the sheet and I gave him a pound.

“Never been surer of anything in my life,” I said.

“Me too,” said Eli, before mumbling some more about how hot he was in the monster suit, going so far as to compare himself to a pizza in a wood-fired brick oven.