Circuit Of Heaven (8 page)

“Sure they do.”

“I mean moving parts, parts that wear out.”

“You don’t think ideas wear out?”

He started to answer, and she burst out laughing. “Are you always this serious? Talking so solemnly about ‘moving parts’ without cracking a smile?” He smiled then. He could have a good time. It was possible.

“Not always. Sure you don’t want to change the ‘solemnly’ to ‘pompously’?”

“I’ll keep it in reserve. So what do you do on the outside?”

“Salvage. Old electronics mostly. CD players, VCRs, stuff like that. Lawrence and I find them, fix them up, trade them for stuff we need. I like digging up old CDs. You never know what you might find.”

She pictured him digging through landfills looking for old rock and roll. “Your mom told me you like music.”

“When did she tell you that?”

“She talked quite a bit about her boy before you got there.”

“That must’ve been something.” He took a drink, swirled the ice cubes around.

“Maybe you’re too hard on her.”

“Maybe.” His voice was grim.

Justine had liked Nemo’s mom. She did tend to rattle on, but that was okay. Anybody’d be nervous with a son like Nemo coming to dinner. He probably deconstructed the lasagne. “So was she right about the music, or is she just wrong about everything?”

There wasn’t a trace of a smile now. “I’d rather not talk about my parents.”

She started to just let it go. She hardly knew him. It wasn’t any of her business. Then thought, what the hell. “I don’t think your parents are so bad, Nemo. How do you know you wouldn’t have done exactly what they did? You might see it differently thirty or forty years from now. Besides, they didn’t mean it to be permanent. Seems to me, you’re the one who’s made that decision.”

“Is that how you feel about your parents? Forgive and forget?”

She thought about it. She remembered many nights, lying in her bed thinking about her parents, wondering who they were. “Sometimes. I can’t really forget them—I don’t know who they are. I make up different ones. Sometimes, they’re shits. Sometimes they have no other choice. I forgive the nice ones—that’s easy. I’m working on the shits.”

He finished his drink and set it down. “I better be going,” he said.

“Come on, Nemo. Don’t run off. I promise to change the subject.” She reached out and touched the
Scotch
icon, held up her glass—still half full. “Keep me company till I finish my drink?”

The hurricane lamp slid to one side, and another scotch rose out of the table. He didn’t laugh this time, but stared at the glass for a moment before he finally took it and the lamp slid back into place. He took a deep swallow.

“So what kind of music do you like?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “You’re really something, you know that? Lawrence has been trying to get me to talk about my parents for years, and it only took you five minutes.”

“I thought we were talking about music.”

“I’m changing the subject. To tell you the truth, Justine, sometimes I think that I’m staying out of the Bin just to prove my folks wrong. To prove they didn’t have to go in. Is that childish or what?”

She laid her hands on his. “What do you think the rest of the time?”

He looked around the room as if he were trying to memorize it. “That’s the hard part. Every time I see them in here I think they’ve made a terrible mistake. When I try to put my finger on it, to put it into words, I can’t. But it’s like they’re dying in here without even knowing it. They’re like people pretending to be my parents, but they’re really not.”

She squeezed his hands. “Sounds like my folks.”

He smiled. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I always get a little morbid when I visit my parents.”

“What about when you meet girls?”

“I don’t meet many girls.”

She laughed and gave his hands a shake. “I would’ve guessed that. Now tell me what kind of music you like before I resort to torture.”

He laughed with her, loosening up a little.

“What kind of torture?”

She arched an eyebrow, pretended to think about it. “How about I tie you up and never let you go?”

He looked into her eyes. “I could take a lot of that.”

She blushed, imagining it. “Music, Nemo.”

“Okay. I’m pretty boring actually. I like everything. Whatever I can get my hands on. It’s silly, but when I dig around in some old basement and turn up a hundred-year-old CD of what’s-his-name’s greatest hits, and fix up an old clunker to play it on, I feel like I’m keeping the music alive. Nobody sings much out there, except the fundies and their hymns. There aren’t enough people to listen.”

She nodded in agreement. “It’s better if someone’s listening. I’m a singer.”

He did a double-take. “You’re kidding.”

“That’s why I keep turning the conversation to music, while all you want to talk about is your parents.” He laughed again. If you could just distract his brain, he had a sense of humor.

“So what kind of stuff do you do?” he asked.

“Old covers mostly—pop and country. I like old songs nobody’s heard of. Sort of like you and your basement CDs.”

“Who’s your favorite singer?”

“You probably never heard of her. Aimee Mann. Had a band called Til Tuesday, late 1980s, did solo albums in the nineties.”

His eyes widened, and he grinned from ear to ear. “Hear of her? I love her stuff. I found her CDs in my grandmother’s collection. I played them all the time at boarding school, still listen to them. I’ve never met anyone else who’s even
heard
of her.” He paused and studied her as if she were a photograph. It was an odd sensation. “You know, you look just like her.”

She started to object, but then she thought about it. She did look a lot like her. She wondered why she’d never realized it before. “Thanks,” she said. “She was very pretty.”

“Yes, she was,” he said, but when she returned his gaze, he lost his nerve again and looked around at the crowd.

“Come on, lighten up, Nemo. Relax, have a drink with me. Then you can go home to your girlfriend in the real world. That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve got somebody on the outside.”

He shook his head, took a deep swallow from his drink. “Had a girlfriend,” he said. “She’s in here now.”

She imagined the whole story. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He shrugged it off, but he wasn’t very convincing. “Why should you be sorry? Shouldn’t I just upload myself and join her—live happily ever after like a normal person?”

She put her hand on his arm. “But you didn’t want to upload yourself. You wanted her to stay with you. She probably told you she would, but she didn’t, and now you feel betrayed and abandoned—just like your parents made you feel. That’s why I’m sorry.”

He studied her, a half smile on his face. “I told you you were smart.”

“It wasn’t hard to figure out. You get attached, don’t you, Nemo?”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“What was her name?”

“Rosalind. We’d been together a couple of years. I’ve got a friend named Jonathan, a fundie. She’s his cousin.” He sighed. “She left a note taped to the mantel.”

“Have you seen her since she’s been in here?”

He shook his head. “Don’t want to.” He looked around again at all the couples. “She’ll find somebody in here.”

“You make it sound like a shopping expedition.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Maybe it isn’t.”

“You mean like destiny and all that?” he asked skeptically.

She laughed and shook her head. “I don’t know what I mean. Stephanie, a friend of mine at the orphanage, used to call me a ‘terminal romantic.’ I guess I haven’t changed much.”

“So how long you been in the Bin?”

“Six weeks.”

“How’s it been?”

She rocked her head from side to side. “Okay, I guess. My band just broke up, just as we were starting to get somewhere. I don’t even know these guys I’m playing with tomorrow night. My agent found them. He says they know all the tunes. We’ll see.”

“I don’t mean that,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Is it different? Are you happier here?”

She really didn’t know what to say. The question scared her a little. “I don’t know. I’m still getting used to it.”

“How come you waited so long to come in?”

“I don’t know.” She looked into the flame of the hurricane lamp, ran her fingertips lightly across the glass. “I didn’t know anybody in here.”

“What changed?”

She wanted to change the subject. She didn’t want to talk about herself any more than he wanted to talk about his parents. “Nothing changed. I just didn’t have anyplace else to go. I had to go somewhere, do something.” She shrugged. “I was lonely. I didn’t know anybody outside either.”

“You must’ve known somebody.”

She desperately tried to remember, but there was no one. “There were girls at the orphanage, but I lost track of them.”

“Any regrets?”

She looked up from the flame, at the light flickering in his eyes. “Sure. I’m still lonely in here.”

That hung in the air for a moment. Great, Justine, tell him how lonely you are. She wanted to crawl under the table. “Let’s talk about you again. Why’ve you stayed out? It’s not all about your parents, is it?”

It was his turn to look into the flame. The piano player was finally winding down, banging out chords with ponderous intensity. There was a small ripple of applause. Nemo looked up from the flame, a crooked smile on his face.

He took her hands. “You know those old pictures of the Earth from space—a big blue ball? I have one of those up in my room. It was my grandmother’s. Must be over a hundred years old. I go out walking sometimes and look around at everything abandoned and falling apart, thinking about that picture and how it wouldn’t be the same now to float out there in space like the astronauts and look at the Earth, knowing most of the people are gone. Used to be you could look at it and say, ”That’s where I live. That’s my home.‘ People used to say we were bad for the Earth, and I guess we were, but I don’t think it’ll be the same place without us.“ He looked into her eyes. ”Do you know what I mean?“

“I think so.” She looked down at their clasped hands. “I wish I didn’t.”

“How come?”

“Because I like you. And I’d like to see you again. But everything you’re telling me says that’s not going to happen, is it?”

His voice was leaden and sad. “I don’t think that’d be such a good idea.”

“Because I’m not real? Don’t I feel real to you, Nemo?” He squeezed her hands. “Too real.”

“We could just be friends.”

They looked into each other’s eyes, gave each other the same sad smile. “I guess not,” she said.

“I’m sorry—”

She released his hands and put her fingers to his lips. “Don’t be. I’m glad you think we couldn’t be just friends.” She slid back her chair and tried to sound cheerful. “I guess we should call it a night then. Show me to my room?”

NEMO
NODDED
AND
ROSE
TO
HIS
FEET
,
FEELING
hollow and empty inside. I’m doing the right thing, he kept saying to myself. I’m doing the right thing. So why do I feel so awful? He followed her to the elevator. She didn’t take his arm this time. They stood waiting a few feet apart, watching the numbers light up. They rode up in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes. Her room was in the back corner of the hotel, as far away from the elevator as you could get. They padded down the long, carpeted hallway, stood in front of her door, their heads hung down, not saying anything. Finally she stuck out her hand. “I’m glad I got to meet you, Nemo.”

“Me too,” he mumbled, and took her hand. It was beautiful, her fingers long and delicate. He couldn’t let it go. He pressed her palm to his lips and kissed it.

She ran her fingertips over his cheek. He closed his eyes, and she whispered, “Don’t be afraid of me.”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm. She held him close and pressed her body against him. He’d never felt so alive. He didn’t care if it was real. His feelings were real enough. Not even he could doubt them. She clung to him as if she felt it too, as if she never wanted to let him go.

They kissed for a long time, passionate and then tender. Then they stood there, just holding each other, afraid to let go. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted the feeling to last. Finally, she whispered against his cheek, “Come hear me sing tomorrow night?”

He pressed his cheek against hers, breathed in her scent, knowing what he should do, but knowing he wasn’t going to do it. “I want to.”

“Please?” she whispered.

He kissed her hair, her ear. “Yes,” he said.

She drew back and looked into his eyes. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Her face shone. Nothing he’d ever said in his life had ever made anyone so happy. “The club’s called Black Dog,” she said in a rush. “It’s on K between 11th and 12th. First set’s ten o’clock.”

He just nodded stupidly. He could still feel her kiss on his lips, feel her body in his arms, see the joy in her eyes. He was sure his must have shone as well.

“I guess we both need to get some sleep,” she said, and he let her go. She turned and opened the door to her room. “Good night.”

“Good night,” he said, still in a daze. She caressed his cheek and disappeared into her room, the door closing behind her with a click. He stared at it. He could undo it all with a quick rap at her door. He looked down at his hands that’d just held her and knew he could no more ball them into fists and knock on her door than he could rise from his coffin and walk. He turned on his heel and took off toward the elevator, hit the down button with the side of his fist.

By the time he’d reached the lobby, he was in a rage. He cursed himself as he hurried down the street to the Metro. It’d started raining, a strong spring shower. He passed a couple dancing in the puddles, singing an old love song off-key. “One kiss and you’re fucking Jell-O,” he muttered to himself as he boarded the packed train to Pentagon Station, swaying against strangers who paid no attention as he cursed their paradise, who chattered on, making their plans.