Backward-Facing Man (33 page)

“Our comrades didn't go down in a hail of fire to have their names dragged—”

“All you jerk offs did was shoot a school superintendent and rob a couple of banks.”

“Death to the Fascist Insect That Prays on the People!” Alan stiffened in salute.

Jack held up his hand. “Wait a minute, guys. We're all on the same side here….”

At this point, Judy, who'd been watching them closely, spoke. “It's okay, man,” she said, touching Alan's arm. “Jim doesn't have to agree with our positions to drive Pearl home.” Neither Judy nor Joan could take her eyes off Frederick. It was as if they hadn't seen a man in months. Patty was watching Stardust, who was on the landing in front of her mother, rubbing her eyes.

“Okay if I put the girl to bed?” Patty asked Lorraine, who nodded. Alan made a dismissive gesture.

“I'm ready for some rest, too,” Frederick said. Judy and Joan both stepped forward, but Joan got there first. Frederick hoisted his duffel. “I'll see y'all later,” he said, nodding to Jack.

Lorraine needed some air. With Alan's permission, she let herself out the front door and circled the house, looking up at the moon, the peeling paint, the bare bulbs that hung in the second-floor hallway. The smell of pine trees and the sounds of night reminded her of summers in Boston. After almost seven years, Lorraine knew that if Frederick were ever to contact her again, it would be like this—hastily arranged, edgy, and remote—way outside her comfort zone. When she thought about him now, it wasn't all charged conversations and the courage of your convictions. Lorraine's love for Frederick had been desperate and groundless, fierce in the way you could be loyal to a concept. Imagining herself with him now brought on a feeling of weariness, of perpetual transience, of never having or wanting things beyond what she could earn in a week or carry on her back—the kind of life that was wholly unsuitable for a child.

After a few minutes, she let herself back in the house and quietly climbed the steps, pausing outside the bedroom when she heard her daughter say, “Make something up.”

“Okay,” Patty said. Lorraine slipped into the bedroom, where Patty and her daughter were lying side by side. “But you have to promise not to tell anyone, especially Teko and Yolanda, the people with the guns.” Lorraine took a crayon and opened one of Stardust's coloring books. As Patty spoke, Lorraine transcribed.

“Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, many years before you were born, a man traveled across the kingdom and discovered gold. He traded gold for other riches, and soon he became the most powerful man in the land.”

“Like a king?”

“Yes,” Patty said, “like a king. Then the man found a pretty wife, who dreamed of having a son richer and more powerful than anybody in the world. And when their little boy was born, the mother taught him the ways of the world and filled his mind with stories about faraway lands and beautiful treasures. The boy was young and curious and brave and adventurous.”

“Not like the man downstairs?” Stardust said.

“Not like him at all,” Patty said. Except for the setting, she might have been a babysitter reading to a child. “Before long, the boy was old enough to leave his parents' house and go to college. When he came back, he found a young princess to marry.”

“How do you get to be a princess?”

“I don't know,” Patty said, pausing, “but they had five little boys, one after another. Can you imagine that?”

“I hate boys,” Stardust said.

There was a long silence, as if Patty was considering Stardust's position seriously. “What the young man wanted most was attention, and so, with his father's help, he started a newspaper. At first, the stories were accurate, but soon he realized that people wanted to read things that were exciting, so he started exaggerating them, even making some up. The wilder the stories, the more newspapers people bought and the richer he became. He was so successful that, after a while, a pretty movie star became his girlfriend.”

“He had a girlfriend and a wife?”

“One day, he decided he was going to build a castle out of marble and stone and fill it with paintings and statues. No expense was spared, and when it was done, he and his girlfriend had incredible parties with movie stars and foreign dignitaries.” There was a long pause, and it sounded as if Stardust was shifting position. Lorraine could see them both clearly now in the moonlight, lying side by side. If Patty was aware of her presence, she didn't show it. “Even though he was the richest and most powerful man in the world,” she continued, “he was very sad.”

“How come?” Stardust asked sleepily.

“I'm not really sure, but I think it was because as soon as he had one idea, he came up with another one that he liked better. And the more he accomplished, the more he regretted not doing. Nothing was enough. He hated getting old. He didn't want to die.”

“Me neither,” Stardust said.

“Nobody does,” Patty said softly. “And by the time he did, he was a jealous, grumpy old man.”

“Did the princess live happily ever after?”

“No,” Patty said. “She died, too.”

“That's a sad story,” Stardust said.

Patty rolled over and knelt beside the bed, staring for a long time at Stardust. Lorraine set the crayon and coloring book down and shut her eyes. After a while, Patty sighed, long and mournful, then leaned over and gave the girl a kiss. “Good night,” she said softly. Then she brushed past Lorraine and she disappeared.

 

The door to the bedroom was open. Joan had her shirt off and she was leaning over Frederick, who was lying on his back with his hands behind his head. Moonlight fell across her shoulders, which were smooth and brown. She said something that caused them both to laugh. Lorraine was in the bathroom directly across from them, the faucet on, leaning over the sink, splashing water on her face. When she turned around, Frederick called to her. “Lorrie, c'm here.”

Joan crossed her arms. “Looks like you're doing well, Jim,” Lorraine said, smiling.

“If you think this is what life on the run is like, you're wrong.” He was smiling, too. “How long have you been stuck with these lunatics?” It was unclear whether he was talking to Joan or Lorraine.

Joan answered. “All summer. My boyfriend's in the slammer. Jack and Mikki invited me out last spring, but these people are nuts with their push-ups and jumping jacks and cleaning their weapons like there's gonna be a revolution out here any minute.” Lorraine liked Joan. She was real.

“Lorrie,” Frederick said, patting the bed. “Sit down.” Joan stood up, her small breasts brown from sunbathing. “Talk to me,” Frederick said. “Tell me everything.” Joan put her shirt on and said she was going downstairs.

“I need to listen for Stardust,” Lorraine said, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“Cathy and Hash told me you were still in Philly,” he said.

She felt her pulse quicken. “That fucker almost killed us!”

“He's an asshole,” Frederick said quietly. A cloud passed in front of the moon, darkening the room. Six years of separation settled over them. Downstairs, a woman laughed, a tight little peal, and somebody dropped something heavy. Lorraine's fingers moved down his cheek, tracing him. She remembered nights trying to wake his passion—Walden Pond, Cambridge, Chicago. Sounds rose from inside her, muffled. “It's been a long time,” she said.

“So tell me,” Frederick said softly. Lorraine closed her eyes.

“Tell you what?” Everything about him was familiar—his smell, the feel of his skin, her hunger for him, which always went unsatisfied. Letting her finger enter his mouth, he surrounded it with his lips, pulling in as she pulled it out, barely accommodating, but not resisting.

“You married yet?”

She let her face drop against his neck; the rest of her weight pressed against his torso. “Nope.”

He let his head fall back. She leaned in. He pulled away. It was the game they'd always played. She moved her hand down his chest to his torso, and down lower until he pushed it away. The one with no ending.

“How about Puckman?” His upper lip curled. “The little fucker.”

She shook her head. After Frederick, Lorraine had a succession of lovers, who, deep down, were unaccustomed to getting what they needed; who, for whatever reasons, were invested in feeling undeserving and ashamed; and whose frailty seemed designed to elicit nurturing. Men who felt trapped or weighed down with grief, who relied on women to feel their feelings. She slid her cheek down until it rested on his belly and began humming an old song, a jazz standard, a melody that seemed to her as if it could have gone back to the beginning of time—something her father may have played on the saxophone, or her mother may have sung to her late at night.

From far away, he let his fingers rest on her neck, the side of her face, her hair. She held her face just above him, touching his belly with her breath. He was still as stone. “‘I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood…I know I could…always be good…to someone who'll watch over me.'” She held that position for a long time, feeling him resist, react, and then resist again, this moment as much a part of their story as any other.

“Weren't you two together?” Frederick asked, his voice higher now, constricted. “After the kid?”

“He's never even
met
her.”

“He coulda made you an honest woman.”

“It's not the same thing, Frederick,” Lorraine said. “What your father did to your mother. That isn't love. It's not what has to happen between a man and a woman.”

When Frederick spoke again, his voice seemed to come from an entirely different part of his body. “Fuck these people,” he said suddenly, motioning toward the door. “I don't know whether they lucked into her or somebody powerful is calling the plays from the sidelines.” He rolled over and sat up. “Either way, it's a fucking waste to have Patty Hearst and not know what to do with her.” The noise from downstairs had stopped, and the sound of crickets filled the room.

“What are you doing here, Frederick?” Lorraine said softly.

“They want me to drive her back to California.” Frederick stood up and walked to the window. “So they can rob banks. It's a fucking waste.”

“Frederick?”

“She should be in a safe place, and they should be issuing communiqués that'll really shake things up.”

“Why did you send for me?”

“Calling for economic sanctions against big corporations—massive boycotts and picket lines, that kind of thing.” From behind, Lorraine noticed his hairline, the skin behind his ears, which sagged, and the slope of his shoulders.

“Do you ever think about coming in?” Lorraine asked, touching his arm.

“Nah,” he said, looking into the dark. She could see his reflection in the window. “Out here, I'm king.” He closed his eyes. “They'd lock me up and throw away the key.” For a moment, Lorraine thought she saw him wince, as if he was going to cry. “Lorraine.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Maybe we could do this thing together. Nobody'd be looking for a straight couple driving cross-country. We could set her up someplace and make tapes. You could get them delivered, do the shopping….”

“Frederick,” Lorraine said. “You chose this life as much as I chose mine. Don't ask me this. Don't ask me to give up my little girl's safety—”

“It's not just about giving up, Lorraine.” He got up and walked to the window. “It's about getting something, too.” He put his hands on his hips.

“Don't,” she said, bracing herself.

“You don't have to feel like you ran away, Lorraine.”

“Fuck you, Frederick.
You
ran away. I had a child—a living, breathing human being with moods and desires and a future that is completely dependent on me. Did you even see her, Frederick? Did you notice how beautiful she is? Would you like me to bring her along? Pull her out of school? Hide her from kids her own age?”

“What happened to you, Lorrie?” he said, shaking his head.

“Life happened to me.” Lorraine had a feeling that every moment, something vital was passing between her daughter and her—a medicine that had to run its course for it to be effective—to interrupt it now for a cause or a man was unthinkable.

“How can you just forget?”

Lorraine reached for his hands. “That's the problem, Frederick. We remember things that no longer serve us. What you saw between your father and your mother. Oneonta. What the two of us had.” She drew herself up on her toes and kissed him on the back of his neck. Then she slipped into the room filled with the fragrance of her little girl.

 

When she woke Sunday, the farmhouse was wrapped in a gauzy shroud. Out back, the soldiers were drilling. Lorraine gathered their clothes and Stardust's toys and stuffed them in a bag. She folded the papers with the story into a tiny square and put it in her pocket. From the front window, Lorraine confirmed that her car was parked where she'd left it—at an angle facing the house. Quietly, she woke her daughter, walked her to the bathroom, and then led her downstairs into the kitchen. Joan was scraping the bottom of a jar of instant coffee.

“How come you stay?” Lorraine asked. Joan shrugged. A saucepan with water had started to boil. “Where am I gonna go?”

“When's the last time you saw your boyfriend?”

“I don't know. A year, maybe more. I don't even know if we're on anymore.” Joan offered Stardust a bowl of cereal. I see other guys now and then.” And then, remembering, “What about you and Jim? Are you together?”

“A long time ago,” Lorraine said. They looked out the window at Alan and Judy, who were crouching behind a tree.

Joan ran her fingers along the countertop. “Well, I hope I didn't—”

“No, no,” Lorraine said quickly. “He's all yours. I mean, you can't be in two worlds at the same time, can you?” They laughed. Joan held her hair back while she sipped her coffee.