The Sky Below (24 page)

Through the skylight above, I could see the luminous quarter moon, gathering its strength to spring and bite the sun. My ass, my balls, settled into the ground. My right big toe itched. I looked down. In the gloom, I could make out a small, scuttling shape—a pill bug? a centipede? a roach?—moving purposefully over my toe. It traversed my toenail, moved over the downward curve of my big toe, crossed a patch of dirt, and began the journey up the side of my long second toe. I didn't brush it away. Instead, taking quick, shallow breaths, I watched the determined bug, half wanting to eat it. I put my hands in the dirt, which was nearly as warm as a body.
Don't fall asleep, don't fall asleep, don't fall asleep.
The bug made it to my third toe, victorious.

 

At the Metropolitan Museum, the statue of Saint Margaret emerging from the body of a dragon was easy to overlook, especially if you were hurrying past, hungry, as people usually were. Saint Margaret was too close to the café to be noticed. She was a small figure, perhaps two feet high, carved from brownish alabaster. Her typewritten cardboard label said she had been made in 1475. Her arms were gone, as was the head of the dragon from which she was rising with a benevolent, loving, untroubled expression. The rubies on her headdress, however, were intact. They glittered in the dim gray light of the medieval gallery. She wore a long, simple dress with a full skirt and a robe that fell in folds around her small shoulders and over the back of the dragon, who was rather stout. Her head was inclined to one side and her eyes were closed. Her long wavy hair was loose, her forehead was high, her chin was pointed. She looked so young—too young to be afraid of the dragon or surprised that she had emerged, whole, from within it. Anyone could see that she loved the stout dragon and the dragon loved her, too. They were still one, inseparable at the base; the dragon's sturdy, scaly paws were braced against the ground, ready to move, to take the little saint where she wanted to go.

In the past, I had come with concrete requests, like a child waiting to sit on Santa's knee. Sarah had asked Saint Margaret
many things over the years and received many astute replies. But today I felt within me a vague, windy rushing, a striped wheezing, like the accordion before it found a note.
Saint Margaret,
I thought,
tell me who I am.
The little saint, still half dragon herself, continued her silent contemplation of everything.

 

From here, it all seems so clear. I see myself, an anguished, energetic figure rushing and hopping busily over the curve of the world, full of self-importance and worry, thinking I could read the sky. I studied it every day, took its temperature, ran it over my tongue. I collected endless treasure from the ground and assembled it into what seemed to me patterns and designs that would attract the maximum amount of luck. I burned incense. I made sacrifices—my cell phone, for instance. I made a rule that I could wank only every three days. I hurried down Wall Street, head bent, past the temples. I tended the dead dutifully, if without any particular emotion. I kept my trove of silver bricks intact, hidden in the freezer. That house was gone, but maybe there was another one, a better one, waiting to reveal itself at dusk. I played all the angles, in other words. What else could I have done? What else does anyone ever do?

 

I sat in the spindly chair next to Fleur's magnificent curve of divan. She was sleeping. A silver streak, she looked as if she was about to dissolve into the gold pillow beneath her head. I turned the flash drive over in my hand. This was the end of
Stolen at Twilight,
though I had some good ideas for
Stolen in Flames.
I should probably raise my fee again, I thought. Morty, his hair standing on end, his ancient jeans sagging, peeked in.

“She didn't wake up yet?” he said.

“No.”

“Oh, she will,” he said, and shuffled away.

I touched the damask throw, fingered the silk. They were
truly divine. Being rich made a difference. I held a bit of cashmere to my cheek.

Fleur's eyes snapped open. “Put that down,” she said.

I dropped the divine fabric, my face red.

“Give me the thing.” She held out her curled hand. Stung, I dropped the flash drive in it. She was in a terrible mood.

She pulled herself up until she was almost sitting. She frowned. “I know about you,” she said. “I know what you did.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You.” She pointed an accusatory finger with the uncurled hand. “You stole my swans.”

“Your what? No, I didn't steal anything.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You little bastard. I know you did. I know all about you. Those. Swans. Were. Mine. You take my money. You lead me on. You help yourself to my knickknacks, some Steuben shit. That's bad enough. But those swans were a gift from my own sister. Linda gave them to me when I finished my first book. They've brought me all my good luck, all my silver and gold. All this”—she waved her skinny good arm—“is because of those fucking swans. And you are going to pay, you rotten shit.”

“I don't know what you mean,” I said, as forcefully as I could manage. “I don't have your swans! I've never even seen them!”

“And now you're lying, on top of it. Let me tell you something. You are done here. We are done. You will never, ever come back here. You will never get another dime from me. And I'll tell you something else. I know about you, your disease. I put my man on you.”

“Morty?” I almost laughed at the thought of Morty ducking behind cars and lurking in doorways, but then, seeing Fleur's broken face, I didn't.

“Not Morty, you idiot. The man I pay. The one who checked you out for me in the beginning.” With the side of her face that smiled, Fleur smiled bitterly. The other side
maintained its frown. “I know what you have. You deserve it, and you”—she pointed again, her narrow finger an inch away from my nose—“you're going to die from it.” She spat on the floor. “I curse you.”

I felt the blood leave my face. “Jesus Christ, please don't curse me, Fleur.” I held out my hand. “Please.” I was afraid. Darkness opened beneath my feet. I whispered, “Okay, I'll give them back.”

“Too late,” she said. “The damage is done.” She stared at me, unforgiving.

Without a backward glance, I ran. Past Morty listening at the door, past the springtime meadows, past the white sofas like so many clouds, down the marble hallways, slamming out the front door, careening down the hall with its flocked wallpaper, the clanging fire stairs, running running running past the liverymen and footmen and jesters. Nearly in flight, my feet on the verge of leaving the ground, I ran into the oncoming dusk of Central Park West, where, two blocks down, I finally stopped, bent over, breathing hard.
Mama, take this badge off of me.
I looked at my open left hand, empty of the flash drive. Only its same tilted, wavy lines in it, which I couldn't read. I pressed it to my face, breathing in, breathing out.
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door.
My feet unmistakably on the ground. If only, I thought, that door would open up and let me in.

 

When I got home, I found Caroline sitting at the kitchen table with a cigarette and a cup of black coffee, her hair pulled tightly off her face. In front of her on the rickety kitchen table was a silver brick, but the brick was split open by a jagged tear. The green bills were bursting through the torn plastic wrap and tinfoil.

“I was looking,” said Caroline in a low, terrible voice, “for some sugar.” She flicked her fingernail against the split-open brick. “Fuck you, Gabriel. Fuck you, big-time.”

I hadn't taken my coat off. “Let me explain.”

Who knew the Furies could be so cold when they raged? “No. No. No. I counted. There's enough here for the transfusion. There's enough here to move. And I know you. If there's this much in the freezer, there's another stash somewhere else, isn't there? Enough for so many things. While we worry about you, and cry, and talk it over endlessly, and sneak off to do research online and
wait,
Gabriel, we fucking
wait
for you, you're so
fragile,
we have to be so
careful.
We
choose our battles.
We
manage.
We tiptoe. And what do you do?” She picked up the brick, shook the cold money onto the dirty floor. “You do this. You have got to be kidding me. You are heartless. You haven't changed at all. You never will.”

“It was for my house,” I muttered, about to cry. “I was saving.”

“There
is
no house, Gabriel,” said Caroline, tapping her ash. “I bet you got up to some shit there, too. But let me explain something to you: there never was a house in the first place. You were trying to steal back what never existed.”

“Maybe not for you,” I said, and then I found myself flattened against the door from the force of Caroline's glare.

“You stupid, stupid little boy. You selfish fuck.” She shook her head. She looked old. She was getting jowls, though her black and gray curls seemed springier than ever, electrified by anger. “I'm a fool. But not anymore.” She lifted her chin. “I'm taking my name off the lease. You're on your own. Maybe that will pull you back into reality.”

The back of my neck itched. A feather emerging. Inwardly, I smiled. Outwardly, I returned Caroline's stare. “Do whatever you feel to be in your best interest, Caroline,” I said. “Just like you always have. And, by the way, when are you leaving? And until then, please stop smoking in here, will you? It's not good for my health.”

Caroline dropped her cigarette into the dregs of her
coffee. “We leave in two days. We want to get that footage of the eclipse.” She adjusted her glasses. I swept past her into my room. I shut the door and curled up in bed, thinking
lightness lightness lightness.
I rubbed at the back of my neck where the feathers were thickening. They were thick and reddish now on my balls, too. I had a wank; my come was thready, like egg white. Then I fell into a deep sleep.

 

The rocks along the shoreline were mammoth and jagged, and we made our way along them slowly, weighed down by the bundles we each had to carry. I grasped a rough declivity, pulled hard, and slipped, scraping my ankle. The wet burlap sack on my back slid perilously to one side. Sweating, I hit it awkwardly with one arm, batting it back into place. A rusty can of tuna fish fell out, clattered down between the rocks. I ignored it. There wasn't time: the sun was setting. I was drenched, salty, shivering. Up ahead, I could see that Caroline was tiring, too. Her wet calves trembled as she hauled herself up a rock so tall and steep it must have had a local name of its own. She clung to its side, gripping, making progress an inch at a time. My ankle was bleeding and already starting to swell. There were two in front of me, three behind me. No one spoke. I lowered myself down a rock in preparation for the next climb up. The tide was coming in. My ankle, I knew, was broken. Caroline, wiggling on her stomach, rolled over on top of the huge, steep rock and sat up, breathing hard.

“Gabe!” she called out from atop the tall rock, the wind tugging her black hair against her mouth. “Gabe! Gabe!”

I woke up covered in sweat. Switched on the light: 2:30
A
.
M
. I reached for the glass of water, the aspirin. I held my hand up to the light: my hand was pale, my fingers thin. White spots flecked my fingernails. My heart raced. I put my hand on my clammy chest, entreating my heart to be still. I flexed my feet, ankles intact. I pinched my beaky nose. The nodule on my
thigh was bigger, harder. I made myself concentrate on what I could see from my bed: the curve of the mirror, clutter of keys and change and the black plastic pill bottle on the dresser, the woodcut print of the city skyline on the wall. In the street, someone shouted a name—Derek or Eric. Then silence. Dead of night.

Next to the aspirin was the small, dark blue, stoppered bottle of Rose of Acacia. I pulled out the stopper, squeezed up a dropperful, and released the inky drops into the glass of water. I drank it in one swallow. I turned my pillow over to get the cool side, lay down, and switched out the light. I didn't dream again that night.

 

As fate would have it—and who said fate has no sense of humor?—the next morning, Janos took me to my appointment with the most special doctor, the top doctor, who was seeing a very select group of patients at the hospital, in a colleague's office. A nurse drew blood; we waited. Another nurse drew a bit more blood; they gave me bright orange peanut butter crackers. We waited some more. Janos made calls. I was hungry, even after the crackers. I wondered if that was a good sign or a bad one. Finally, the top doctor, a tall, bony, snow-white man, called us into his office. On the desk was a photo of a black family, smiling next to a pyramid. The family of the doctor whose office it was, obviously.

The bony white doctor had a few numbers scrawled on a prescription pad. “These numbers,” he said, “are very sobering.” He corrected himself. “Mr. Collins, Mr. Laszlo, these numbers are bad.” He held up the pad, but I couldn't understand what the numbers meant, and anyway, they didn't look bad or good—they just looked like numbers. Threes and fours, mostly.

Janos put his head in his hands. His pant legs rode up, exposing his black silk socks.

“So, do we need to do the transfusion?” I asked as my glittering pile melted. I surrendered.
Mama, put my guns in the ground. I can't shoot them anymore.

The light in the room dimmed. I thought it was my eyes, my anxiety, but the bony white doctor looked out the window and said, “You know what that is? That's the eclipse.” He checked his watch. “It's a beauty. A big one.” He turned on the desk lamp. “I'm sorry to say that we can't do the transfusion. We have to go straight to chemo.”