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They walked around to the front, into the garden, and then Ira pitched himself forward. It was Ira’s turn to be sick.

“Ira? Ira?” Jonathan’s hands danced like butterflies.

Ira rolled sideways and sat in a garden chair, head in hands, glasses dangling.

“Are you sick?” The prospect of Ira being ill too filled Jonathan with alarm. “Let me get you a drink or something.”

“I don’t want anything.” The garden floodlights made Ira look blue-white. He sat still with his eyes closed. “I’m very tired, Jonathan.”

Jonathan had to say something. He found that he was fighting. “Maybe we could, maybe we could arrange a holiday for you.”

“Juh!” said Ira, turning away, eyes still closed. With a great effort he stood up and began to walk up the steps.

Jonathan followed him, his head wobbling like an Indian dancer’s. Everything felt loose, as if his ligaments had come untied. “You. You could stay at Jenny’s for a few days, Ira, in the hills. I’ll be okay, I can stay here, maybe see a few people, go out for dinner. You’re very tired, Ira, I can see that, I feel real bad about that, I know I make you do everything . . .”

I leaned on you too hard and you broke.

Ira stopped in front of the door and turned. “Do you think I want to go through all this twice?”

Ira wanted to go away.

“No, no, of course not, that’s why I said, maybe a break would be a good thing.” Jonathan followed Ira across the darkened living room into the kitchen. “Maybe the time has come to get a cleaning lady or something or a nurse or something, you know, just to take some of the strain.”

Ira was greedily drinking a glass of water straight from the tap instead of the filter. The freezer buzzed, where Ira kept the coffee beans frozen until they were ground. So it would be healthier. Ira turned and looked at him solemnly, heavily, like stone. Jonathan looked at him.

“Please don’t go, Ira.”

“Where the fuck can I go?” said Ira. He walked with his tumbler of water into the bedroom. “I carry it around with me.”

“You’re working too hard.”

“I’m working too hard to keep away from you,” said Ira. He began to undress. He kicked off his trousers, leaving them discarded, twisted. He really was getting very fat. His body was familiar, like an old pillow.

“That bad, huh,” said Jonathan.

“That bad. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some sleep.”

Jonathan stood helplessly in the middle of the room. They slept separately now; sleeping next to Jonathan was unpleasant; he knew that. He shivered, he sweated, he got up. He didn’t expect Ira to sleep with him, but he did want to be touched, he did want to be held. He wanted to be comforted.

Without saying anything, Ira began insistently to push him back out of the room.

Jonathan panicked. He began to gabble as he walked backward, as if a tape were being rewound. “Ira. Don’t go, huh. I’ll ease up, I’ll do anything, I’ll go away and come back, I’ll do anything, only please, Ira, please don’t leave me alone!”

The door was closed. He stood looking at it.

“Oh, God,” said Jonathan, to the ceiling. What do I do now?

You try, said a more sensible voice, to get some sleep. You try to get yourself calm and try to sleep. You’ve got a disease to fight.

Even if I want to die?

The room was spinning anyway. Oh God, Jonathan felt himself surrendering the world from exhaustion. He stumbled toward the big easy chair.

In something like sleep, he dreamed. He dreamed that he had played the Scarecrow after all. He was swept up in the magic circle of light, and gave the performance of his life. The Scarecrow was goofy and brainless, at war with the physical world, possessed of imagination, another kind of intelligence. He was more magical than the Wizard, kinder than the Tin Man, braver than the Lion. The Scarecrow was the favorite. He and Dorothy danced around and around in circles like a cyclone, filling the vacuum at its heart.

He woke up and knew what he had to do. He did not have much time.

He stood up and emptied his pockets. The garage keys, the bungalow keys, he left on the table in his little niche with the stained-glass window. He didn’t want to die in L.A., alone, listening to NPR, waiting for someone, anyone to call. He didn’t want to bother Ira, torment him, make Ira take care of him and make himself sick. Jonathan wanted to disappear. He wanted to make one last visit to Back Then.

He left his keys, but no note. He took his little purse, with notebook and credit cards. He smiled. An adventure. What do you want to do? people always asked him when they found out, meaning, Do you want to write a novel? Travel? I want, thought Jonathan, to do this.

He closed the door behind him. It was locked. He could not go back. He went down the steps. There was a silver hint of dawn in the sky. He would catch the blue bus on Wilshire and then the blue bus along Lincoln. He would take the big blue bus to Oz.

After Ira and Jonathan left, Bill had climbed up the wooded hill in back of his house. He looked down on the City of the Angels, at its rivers of moving light. He felt wonder at the world. Unaided by faith or meditation, a visitor to his house was having visions, like a medieval monk. Bill Davison was going to pray to the blank yellow-gray sky, to the lights, to the God that drove them all. He suddenly found that he couldn’t.

Manhattan, Kansas

September 1989

“breaking the will”

This phrase is going out of use. It is high time it did . . . But the phrase is still sometimes heard; and there are conscientious fathers and mothers who believe they do God service in setting about the thing.

I have more than once said to a parent who used these words, “Will you tell me just what you mean by that? Of course you do not mean what you say.”

“Yes, I do. I mean that a child’s will is to [be] once for all broken!—that he is to learn that my will is to be his law. The sooner he learns this the better.”

—
The first paragraphs of a front-page article on child raising from the Manhattan
Nationalist
of Friday, January 15, 1875. The article goes on to describe, as an example of
good
child-raising practice the case of a four-year-old boy who was subjected to a two-day campaign to get him to pronounce correctly the letter G.

Jonathan’s Canada had disappeared. It had been there when he left in the earliest seventies. By the late eighties, Corndale had been swallowed up by an administrative fiction called Missasauga. It was another Indian name, another vanished tribe.

Missasauga was a sea of subdivisions. Corndale’s nearest neighbor, Streetsville, was solid, stolid housing as was Corndale itself. The two realities met as fiction. The farms on which Jonathan had seen running deer as a child had disappeared. When he visited Corndale now, he got lost in the bewildering meander of streets designed to stifle speed and protect children. It was all about land values and Toronto airport and Highway 401. Urban foxes, urban raccoons were rumored to rummage through trash cans at night.

So where was home?

Jonathan pulled the gray Celebrity out of the parking lot of the airport of Manhattan, Kansas, and suffered a delusion. Outside there were wide green fields, and huge trees the like of which he had not seen since the elms in Corndale had been cut down after Dutch elm disease. He thought he had finally, somehow, found his way back to Corndale. In particular, he was driving along the number 10 highway, the road that led from Brampton.

This made him very happy. This made him feel that suddenly everything had gone right with the world, even though there was for some reason a puddle of blood and stomach juices on the back seat. It seemed to him that he recognized the road signs, the chalky limestone through which the road had been cut. He recognized the huge, 600-acre farms. He wondered what had happened to his childhood friends, and if he could visit them now.

Then suddenly, instead of blood on the back seat, there was a visitor. Oh dear, thought Jonathan. Why did I bring him along?

On the back seat sat Mortimer.

It was going to be terribly embarrassing taking Mort home, because he was in full drag. Perhaps he had come fresh from some Halloween parade. He was dressed as Dorothy.

He had pigtails and a checked apron and balloon sleeves and white surgical gloves. For some reason he was also wearing a bandito hat and was holding maracas. His face was in sections like a quilt.

Mortimer gave the maracas a shake. “Hola!” he cried. “Que tal!”

Spanish? “Bee-ba Meh-heeko!” he cried, lips thick with red lipstick. Jonathan was mildly surprised to see red, but could not remember why.

“This is Mexico, isn’t it?” Mortimer was not sure.

Jonathan couldn’t remember.

“We’re in
Kansas?
” said Mortimer as if he had stepped in something. The maracas sank to his lap. The surgical gloves were bloodstained. “What the fuck are we going to do in Kansas?”

I don’t know, thought Jonathan, still driving.

“I thought you wanted to go to Mexico! That’s why you were going to learn Spanish.” Mortimer gave a showy sigh. “And I so wanted to go abroad.” Mortimer giggled. “Who knows, I might have come back a lady.”

Jonathan had never realized just how camp Mortimer was. Jonathan hated camp. Where, Jonathan asked Mort, do you come from?

“From you!” said Mortimer, pointing. He smiled and gave his nose a wrinkle.

I’m nothing like you.

Mortimer pressed his spongy, latex face against Jonathan’s sweaty cheek. In the mirror of the visor, Jonathan saw the same blue eyes staring back at him.

“See the resemblance?” Mortimer whispered in his ear.

How? That face? Jonathan thought.

“Daddy sliced it.”

My father was good and kind, thought Jonathan. He was an athlete. He wanted me to be an athlete, but he never pushed me. He only hit me twice, once when I had hit little Jaimie Cummings and when I’d stained his walls with berries.

“He only hit you twice!” exclaimed Mortimer and clapped his hands together as if in admiration. “
What
a sweetie. Did you ever hit him?”

He never deserved to be hit.

Mortimer lounged back in the seat, smiling as if his lips were full of novocaine.

“Did he die or simply ascend into Heaven?” Mortimer asked. “Making a noise like a dove, perhaps. Whroooo!” Mortimer blew on the palm of his glove and white pigeon feathers fell in the car like snow. “And dropping doo-doo on people underneath.”

He was killed in a car crash, thought Jonathan, bitter with grief, as if it were some kind of vindication. Mortimer grinned back at him. Jonathan searched his mind and really did find his father without blemish.

“He never did anything wrong!” Jonathan was shouting aloud.

Silence, and a numb smile.

Jonathan muttered, “How else are you supposed to discipline kids?”

“Oh! I am in complete agreement,” said Mortimer, hand on breast. There was an instrument of torture, rather like a corkscrew, on his lap. “In fact, the differences between me and your father might be less than you think. Do you like my dress?”

Mortimer batted his eyelashes.

Go away! thought Jonathan.

Mortimer’s eyes went evil. “I thought you wanted to see Kansas!”

He pressed his face against Jonathan’s again and grabbed Jonathan by the chin and made him look in the rearview mirror.

“This face is Kansas. A country is like a child. Smooth and new and virginal until Daddy slashes its face.”

Mortimer fell back into the rear seat. Jonathan felt Mort’s sweat still on his cheek. Mortimer was opening the back door. “Don’t kill any babies,” he warned, and launched himself out of the moving vehicle under the wheels of a truck.

Jonathan swerved violently as the truck roared past, horn blaring. Jonathan pulled over onto the soft shoulder and stopped the car, his hands weak, his heart pumping. In the side-view mirror, Mortimer lay on the road like a prairie chicken. A loose, broken wing stirred in the backwash of air from other cars.

Jonathan sat shivering in the front seat.

My God, he thought, my mind is going. I really am going crazy. I shouldn’t be let loose, I shouldn’t be driving this car. I don’t even know what country I’m in, and I haven’t been able to keep anything down, even water, since breakfast yesterday. What am I going to do in Manhattan, Kansas? He ran a hand across his damp forehead.

There was nothing he could do, but press on.

Kansas, he told himself, as extreme caution he moved the car back out onto an empty stretch of highway. I’m in Kansas. God knows why.

Then he looked up, across the road into the fields, and he thought he was having another vision.

Some way back from the road, there was a white schoolhouse. It was one-roomed, immaculate, blazing white, with a blazing white bell tower. It was nestled in trees. Beside it, sitting in a field of autumnal red sorghum heads, was a two-story frame house. The windows were not set square in it. There was a porch. Behind it there was a windmill.

Jonathan pulled the car over once more. He reached over the back of the seat and pulled out his new camera. He had bought it, credit card once again, at St. Louis airport. He had read the instructions on the airplane.

He began to feel his old hunter’s urgency. PRIVATE, said a sign. That’s okay, he told the sign, I’ll photograph it from here, safe in my car. Hands in a tumble of nerves, he pulled off the lens cap and looked through the viewfinder.

1000 1000 1000, blinked the camera, over and over. It was saying the vision was too bright.

Scowling, hands still trembling, Jonathan took out and reread the booklet. Yes, his new camera was on automatic, and yes, a flashing thousand meant too bright, okay, yes, so what do I do about it?

Anyway it was only sunlight. How could ordinary sunlight be too bright?

1000 1000 1000.

He took the picture anyway. There was something dead in the way the shutter clicked.

Suppose, he thought, suppose I hit it in one, right the first time? Suppose this was where Dorothy lived?

He held the fantasy glowing in his mind for a moment. It was enough to comfort him.