Sweet Lamb of Heaven (74)

Stepping onto the catwalk I remembered parking with a boyfriend senior year, just a few steps from the stadium wall. I knew the moldy smell of the seats in his car, the lacy brown rust along the bottom of the doors, and how we’d thought of the fireworks as our soundtrack—the world was about us. We were sure of that as we made out, moving in the darkness of the car with our long, lean arms and legs bound up in each other, that soft skin tingling over the curves, thrilled by the conviction that this here, this was the only and the all. There was no question, then, that the world had been created as our scenery.

That was the bliss of being young, the pure egoist joy. But if you get old and don’t grow out of it, I thought, looking up at my husband, you are ruined.

Maybe he’d never had a chance for that. Maybe he never had that kind of youth. Maybe he could only feel it now.

I leaned in as though I wanted to kiss him, and though I don’t think he believed or wished for that anymore he must have been surprised for a moment. He’s always assumed I’m harmless, pathetically harmless, and that gave me a couple of seconds’ grace to slam my hands against his chest. I was feeling nothing for him then but a pity that stretched all the way back to his childhood, all the way back to before he was him.

At the second of contact I saw how the guests had been drawn together, dots gathering around a node or birds flocking to a flyway. I saw Ned and his ominous host converging on us like a machine army—even the child in the subway train, even the air in the tires of my car, even the fire that had burned the house, all these were his armaments. I saw in every granule and wave how my husband’s power had seemed impossible, how it had borne the sheen of dark magic for me but was constituted of energy, energy subverted.

And when the heels of my hands came off him again, the images faded.

But it wasn’t easy to send him over the rail. I didn’t have enough weight behind me or enough leverage; maybe the angle of my approach was weak. I felt the bulk of his chest against my hands, the shock of his unyielding body as he leaned back. The chest was the wrong place to hit, a mistake that almost cost me my life: he was well-balanced with the rail against the backs of his thighs. Instead of toppling backwards he grabbed me and steadied himself—a strong man as well as a beautiful one. With his disciplined allegiance to fitness he’d always had strength. Discipline equals strength, though the coldness of the equation is depressing—unfair, it seemed to me as I felt instantly shocked and made foolish by the feebleness of my attack.

I’d felt its prospect tingle on my skin and seconds later that prospect had ebbed. My chance had passed. Why does strength hold itself so stubbornly away, why can’t it be that we can summon it out of feeling or impulse, out of just wanting to? Fear made my legs weak. I couldn’t move.

One hand grabbed my right shoulder and the other dug into my left wrist like a claw, and then it was twisting me there, by the wrist, and I don’t know if I gasped or shrieked.

But all the time he was smiling.

Then he raised his hand from my shoulder and, still smiling, punched my face with it, sideways and hard. I felt my nose crunch and the pain was blinding; my eyes squeezed shut and now he was punching me again. And again. My tongue felt a loose molar and my mouth was full of blood.

I was willing to fall with him if I had to. I feared being crippled, but dying I could stand, as long as I could hold a picture of Lena in safety as I fell, Lena in Solly’s care, Solly and Luisa keeping her safe from harm. Before I could push myself forward and topple us both there was a rush of others around me, a cluster of people, and it’s hard to say what the geometry was. Ned must have known I wasn’t alone, but only then did his smile flicker. Or so I believe. I couldn’t see much by then, was blinded by the blood in my eyes.

I know there were others all around me but I couldn’t say if we made noise, I couldn’t say how our hands moved or our feet, couldn’t say much about who did what, whose bodies pushed or pulled, all I can say is that at a certain point I swiped at my eyes and saw we were by ourselves.

Ned was gone.

And when we looked around us—after we leaned over the rail and stared down into a pool of black that didn’t tell us anything—we found the crowd seemed to have ignored our scuffle. But I wasn’t paying attention, I was preoccupied by the pain in my face, the blood dripping down my chin. My nose made a high wheezing noise when I breathed. Will took my hand, Navid was squeezing my shoulder, and then we turned and in a rush we pounded down the stairs—other than me it was all men, Will and Gabe and Burke and Navid and Don; Lena was away from all of it, back in the seats, deep into the row surrounded by the Lindas.

We pounded down and out and around, running hard until we got to the right stretch of pavement. In the dark I breathed my fast, wheezing breaths, tried not to faint from the acuteness of the pain. There wasn’t a floodlight anywhere near us and I couldn’t see his face. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to.

Finally someone found a penlight—I think it was hanging off a keychain—and its weak light was dancing over Ned’s head and shoulders, a small spot unequal to the task, lighting the planes of his face in a piecemeal way. I clenched my hands into fists so the pressure would anchor me against unreality.

But he looked as real as anything lying there, real and even alive, his magnetism intact despite the white polo shirt that should have left him looking like an out-of-place golfer. His jacket was spread open at his sides like wings, his arms were flung out, eyes nearly closed, well-shaped mouth just a bit open. The skin of his face was stainless, almost without a pore, its same delicate hue of salon gold.