Meeks (19 page)

"In the stir of emotion, the man remembered his mother—in fact, he remembered that she was the last thing he had seen before waking up on the island. She had been comforting him, and in that comfort, he had lost the will to survive. His mother's fingernails had combed against his scalp. He had wanted her to find the seams of his head, to pull the loose threads, to break down his head and then his body into smaller and smaller pieces in her lap. He had wanted to be disassembled softly on his mother's lap, and he had wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything in life . . . he was half-asleep, still aware of the trampled-grass smell of her clothes, the feel of sunny wool against his cheek. He wanted to feel his mother breathing and to hear his mother's voice, though not necessarily to understand the words.

"The man jumped to his feet and picked up a water-sharpened black rock. He walked to the mouth of the cave, and he raised the rock over the head of one of the horses. The other two horses stepped away and stood together. The man hammered the rock down onto the head of the horse."

"Bam!” shouted the hammerer and pounded the wooden frame with all his strength. Ben jumped, badly startled, and dropped a plank at the heavens watcher's feet. “Keep quiet,” said Ben. “You'll get us in trouble. And hand me the plank."

"I'm only supposed to pick up nails."

"Pick it up!"

"You pick it up. I'm telling a story. . . ."

"Yes, be quiet. He's telling a story."

Ben crawled back down the stairs to retrieve the plank as the heavens watcher continued, “The horse's skull was surprisingly hard and thick, and the man had to hit him again and again. It was horrible. The horse sank to the ground, hesitatingly at first, and then resolutely. The other horses stared uncomfortably at the black soil. If they had thoughts of revenge, they kept those thoughts to themselves. An agonizing hunger forced the man to cut open the belly of the dead horse and eat."

"What part of the horse did he eat first, Father?” the hammerer asked in a small voice.

"Why, he ate the heart, Son!” boomed the heavens watcher.

"What are you even
talking
about?” hissed Ben. “Be quiet. Keep hammering."

"One day, a ship passed near the island, and the man dove into the water and swam toward it. Sailors pulled him aboard, and the man sank to the dry, warm deck. The sailors brought him some hard bread and a cup of hot tea, and he told them about his time on the black island. Three horses— one gray, two chestnut—had control of the island at first; they were so many, and he was so few.
I became very afraid,
he said firmly,
and very hungry.
He had picked up a sharp rock. He had hunted down one horse and then another. Seeing that the bodies of his two friends had been consumed by the man, the gray horse jumped into the water and swam.
Unexpected,
said the man.
Seeing the horse swimming alone, swimming, swimming nowhere. I knew he'd never make it.
The man hid his eyes from the sailors, ashamed that they had filled with tears.

"The man pulled himself together and said,
Let's go home!
His cup of tea trembled in his hands.
My home, my home . . .
The man stared into the wheat-colored tea and tried to concentrate.
God, what's the name?
He tapped his forehead with one of his sharp, bony fingers. Finally he shook his head in embarrassment.
I'll have to describe it to you. Everything is black—the sand, the rocks; the black waves creep along the shore. It's beautiful.
The sailors looked away, embarrassed; they consulted with each other quietly, smiling reassuringly at the man as they whispered to each other. Finally, a young sailor approached and laid a comforting hand on the man's shoulder and said,
Yes, we have seen this place—it feels good to remember.
"

The hammerer was standing on a completed step, the hammer slack in his hand. “It really does feel good to remember,” he said dreamily.

"But you're remembering
nothing
,” said Ben. “It doesn't even exist."

"Sure, it does, and you know it. Though, you hate apples, which already makes you some kind of monster. You hate islands, horses, sailors . . . everything, maybe.” The hammerer filled his mouth with fresh nails and knelt back down. “Plank!"

Ben handed him another plank of wood. What did it mean, what was he supposed to do? Should he go back to the house and look for Finton? Was Ben the sailor in the story? Was he one of the horses? The hammerer hammered down the plank and addressed the heavens watcher. “Yes, indeed. That's a very complicated situation, philosophically, for the man,” he said brightly. “Ever done any acting?” The hammerer filled his mouth with fresh nails.

"No,” answered the heavens watcher and shrugged modestly. The hammerer turned to Ben. “You?"

"Never,” he answered indignantly.

The hammerer spit his mouthful of nails to the ground (the heavens watcher dropped to his knees and began collecting them). “Well, I am a professional actor, and before you consign us both to the notion that my forced participation on this work crew represents some kind of a professional failure, please know that I revel in the opportunity, however unintentionally garnered, to build with my own hands the boards, the stage, the platform, the great, broad deck upon which the finest, truest words will be spoken. Will I speak them today? Will I speak them tomorrow? Will I ever speak them? I can't know the answer. Yet I know they can't be spoken or heard without this contraption. This!” The hammerer pounded the plank twice with his fist. “Everything we say should matter,” he said, “yet it
doesn't
."

"Fine. I'm sorry,” said Ben.

"What's that?"

"I said, I'm sorry."

"Pardon?"

"Sorry!"

"See what I mean? Hand me another plank. We're almost done here."

Ben handed over another plank of wood and caught a splinter at the base of his thumb. He winced and examined his hand, pinching out the blond sliver with his fingernails.

"God, you're an amateur,” said the hammerer. “Just the kind of man people love to make an example of. You should keep your thoughts to yourself, unless you want to climb these steps again tonight. Plank."

Ben was thinking.

"Plank!"

Ben looked up. The hammerer stood, staring, breathing heavily, the hammer hanging heavily in his hand. “Are you not hearing me?"

"What?"

"Another!"

When they had finished the steps, Ben and the other two men were marched to the sidelines, where hundreds of other new civil servants waited in the shade of the old park trees. Ben sat with the hammerer on a massive ridged root. He watched the birds circling over the stage in the mild autumn light; he listened to the park filling up with the shouts of policemen, the excited chatter of the hundreds, the exclamations of children. The distant sounds of a train picking up speed over the rumble-planks in the warehouse district echoed indifferently down the street.

The park was soon packed, families and new couples and young bachelors arranging themselves expertly in the vast clearing before the stage. They gazed at the stage, waited for the Lovers Play to begin. The long gray line of civil servants gazed into the audience, seeking out familiar faces. Ben stood on the root and looked for her, inflicting on himself, in the process, the faces of the smitten and peaceful young, every last one of them a victim of that pleasant bewilderment in others, which is love. Ben saw Selfridge in the crowd, serenely sweatered and stretched out on a boldly checkered red-and-blue picnic cloth, a young woman leaning over him, studying his appetites. Handsome couples were everywhere, a sea of cheerful sweaters and fine fabrics and the soft wool geometries of blankets brought from home.
My life!
She was out there somewhere, if only he could see her, in from her country estate, perhaps curled sweetly beside some brute, some sport, some pal, some normal and happy guy, the man whom she was saving because he was so obviously worth saving. Why, after all, thought Ben, save me? Why save or preserve upon the surface of the earth such a perverse and pointless creature?

"Want to hear something funny?” asked the hammerer, still seated upon the root and experimenting with cuffing the coarse, roomy sleeves of his work smock. How had Ben's life, which his mother had guarded like the last known quantity of the earth's most precious ore, been so easily fused with this
nothing,
a man who acted as if he had lost nothing, because he had nothing, and now, thought Ben, he has the satisfaction of high company in the void.

"Not in the least,” said Ben, glaring down at him.

"Fine, then I'll find someone who
will
listen,” said the hammerer, jumping up as if on official business and disappearing down the line.

Meeks

Meeks! said Bedge when I arrived. I was happy to see him. Columns of paper covered the desks of several officers; policemen rolled speedily from cabinet to desk, desk to cabinet. End-of-season madness, said Bedge jovially. I followed him down the hall into the small room at the back of the station. The enormous wooden table was bare, the empty chairs lined up neatly against the wall. Bedge left me alone in the room for a few minutes and returned with a black jacket. The black fabric shone, as if cut and polished from a secret mine of perfect stone.

We both turned to look at the window when we heard a swell of sound and the kind of conversation associated with large, poorly organized crowds.

They must have opened the gates, said Bedge. He looked at me—I had clasped my hands together, as if in prayer, to keep them from trembling visibly. Bedge asked if I was nervous. I admitted that I was—I reminded him that I was not accustomed to speaking in front of large crowds but rather tended to watch them from a considerable distance.

Bedge put his hand on my shoulder reassuringly, and he said, Everything will be all right. Listen to me—you'll change into your costume, and you'll wait here. You'll stay here through the opening and the Lovers Play and through lunch—

I need to be outside! I shouted. I had never missed an Independence Day in my life. I had never raised my voice at Bedge. We regarded one another in stunned silence, enjoying the sense of wonder still possible between old friends. My heartbeat spiked with affection—after all these years, we could still surprise one another.

You will be outside, he said, you will be—toward the end. But we can't very well have the characters walking around in costume, walking around like ordinary people, confusing matters—that wouldn't work. Your job is to make people feel free to feel that whatever is happening to
them
is real. Do you see what I mean? (Of course I did.) I'll come back to collect you for the Founders Play.

I nodded.

As Bedge opened the door of the room to go, something crossed my mind—But where are the other actors? Bedge turned and gestured loosely toward the ceiling.

They're around, he said and left. I heard the lock click, and then I heard Bedge walking down the long hall.

I removed my own jacket and laid it on the table; I put on the tailor-made black jacket, surprisingly light and thin and coarse. I strained to open the window farther, without luck. I knelt on the ground so that I could look through the sliver of open window. I saw the legs and shoes of people as they hurried into the park. When my knees began to ache, I sat against the wall, just beneath the window, and stared sadly at my hands.

Of course it was the sadness of a dream achieved, and in addition to that sadness, which is an unfortunate byproduct of the machinery in place to make the long-dreamed things suddenly true, there is the profound loneliness of a leader of people. Gone were the days of easy affection for other people, gone were the complex camaraderies of the police department. This glumness was a human luxury, a luxury in a moment to be disavowed forever, for what I had discovered was most true in my assumption of the role of the great man was surprising: I had never felt farther away from my people.

I moved one of the chairs close to the window so that I could sit comfortably by resting my elbows on my knees and still see. I trained my eyes upon the slot of fresh air below the heavy window, low and immovable in its sash. The shadows of the trees shifted along the glass, vague, changing, in collusion with certain of my senses to generate a picture of fear. The collar of the coat was rough against my neck; I disliked the strong chemical smell that emanated from the fabric. I imagined I could hear the Lovers Play; rather I deduced from the sudden silence of the crowd that they had become absorbed in something greater than themselves. I sighed discontentedly in the stuffy room. This arrangement was at odds with my happily sentinel nature.

I heard a voice: What'd they get you for?

I craned my neck wildly, searched the room.

What's the charge? (I saw him then: the gray shape of a man standing on the other side of the thick glass of the window. I knelt so that I could see him better—I could make out his left elbow, his hands rising into view to roll a cigarette.)

I'm not a prisoner, I whispered.

You seem
imprisoned
, he said.

No, no. I'm not under arrest. I'm just waiting in the wings, so to speak. I've got a part in the play.

Lovers?

No, Founders.

Huh.

What's happening now?

Am I allowed to tell you?

Of course you're allowed to tell me. The real question is, Am I allowed to tell you?

Tell me what?

That I'm Captain Meeks, for crying out loud. I'm playing the Captain.

All right, all right. Let's see . . . the audience is watching the Lovers Play, soaking up the same old sentimental shit. What a waste. Are you a professional actor?

No.

Classic. Because I
am
a professional actor, currently unemployed.

You didn't get a part?

No, sir. That would suggest there was some justice in this rotten world.

I searched my mind for a helpful reply (I knew how lucky I was). Perhaps they think it will be more realistic this way, I ventured.

Realistic? The actor stormed off, but only a very short distance. I suppose that's in their training. I could smell the smoke from his cigarette; I let him be. The closer the hour drew, the more I worried that I was out of my league. I wished Bedge would appear so that we could discuss alternatives. Perhaps this unhappy and unemployed actor would like a shot at playing the Captain? The work of an actor was a great responsibility, no matter how frivolously actors, in general, conducted their private lives. The failure of even the minorest characters to play their roles with sufficient conviction might cause the entire production to disintegrate.