A Ship Made of Paper (50 page)

“Okay, please, everybody stand away,” Daniel says, retrieving the gun.

But Hampton cannot understand what Daniel is asking, and Nelson is staying with his father, and Ruby adheres to Daniel. He picks the gun up, careful to keep his hand as far as possible from the trigger, pointing the barrel straight down at the ground. He backs away, moving as if afraid the gun might spontaneously fire again. Hampton, Nelson, Scarecrow, and Ruby follow him, and now he stands in the middle of the backyard, holding the gun and trying to resist the impulse to heave it into the trees.

a s h i p m a d e o f pa p e r

And now he is pounding his heel into the ground, digging out a hole so that he might bury the gun, but after a few moments the madness of this is apparent and he stops.

Hampton presses his hands on Nelson’s shoulders, instructing him to stay exactly where he is, and then he walks over to Daniel and reaches for the gun. “Da,” he says softly, in a somehow reassuring way. Daniel, at a loss, anxious to be rid of the gun, relinquishes his awkward possession of the pistol, and then steps back, gathers Ruby in.
What did I just do?
he wonders, as he imagines Hampton firing the gun. But Hampton puts the safety lock on, and then flicks the magazine catch, which is right behind the trigger guard, and then slides the magazine case open at the base of the grip and empties out three cartridges. He puts the cartridges into the pocket of his pajama bottoms and hands the empty gun to Daniel.

They walk toward the house, just as Iris is coming through the back door and stepping out onto the porch. Her initial frown of bewilderment is quickly supplanted by alarm. To see her lover, her husband, two children, and a gun is more than can be understood, but it can surely be evaluated.

“Daniel, Jesus Christ, what is going on here?”

“Da da da,” Hampton says, excited to see her.

“Did you know there’s a gun in your house?” Daniel says.

“Da da da . . .”

“Tell me what’s happening?”

The terror of the gunshot is just catching up to Daniel, like those near misses on the highway that take a minute or two to rattle us, to make hands shake and hearts race. “Did you know there’s a fucking gun in your house?” he says, his voice rising. “Did you know that?”

“Yes. Sort of. It’s not something I think about.”

“Da da . . .”

“It’s not something you think about? Well, your son does. Your
son
. . .” His voice curdles around the word. He hears it himself, wonders for a moment at the ugliness with which he has infused it, and then he sees Iris’s suddenly steely gaze.
Fuck it
. Yet even the phrase, and the

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way it stiff-arms his feelings, the way it pushes him out of love and into the emptiness and foreverness of his own solitude cannot stop the anger that is enveloping him like a trance, and when Nelson walks past him, Daniel is astonished by his own sudden desire to throttle the boy.

“Da da da da da da.”

“What is he doing down here?” Iris asks.

“He got up, he came down. What was I supposed to do?”

“Oh Jesus,” says Iris, while making a series of comforting gestures toward Hampton.
Easy now, it’s okay, I’m here, easy, easy
. . . Nelson is next to her now, pressing his forehead into her stomach. She staggers back a step, touches him, holds him.

“What in the fuck are you people doing with a gun in your house?”

Daniel says.

“You people?” Iris asks. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“You know what I’m saying, don’t try to turn this into something else.”

“Well,
we people
don’t always feel safe when we’re living in a house surrounded by
you people
.”

“Da! Da!”

“All right, Iris.” He feels tugging at his shirt and looks down at Ruby.

Her face is flush, her eyes immense and glittering.

“Why is he saying that, Daniel?”

“It’s okay, honey. We’re going to leave now.”

“But why is he saying that over and over?”

“He’s not feeling well, baby.”

“He’s not feeling well?” Iris says.

“All right,” says Daniel. “You supply the answer.Your kid just fired a bullet two inches over her head, so I’m sure this would be the right time to fill her in on all the neurological details.”

Daniel lifts Ruby off the ground. “Sorry,” he says. “There’s something about a kid getting a bullet in the head that puts me a little on edge.”

“I didn’t do it,” Nelson whimpers, looking imploringly up at Iris.

a s h i p m a d e o f pa p e r

“Shh,” she says, soothing his forehead. Then, to Daniel, “No one was hurt. The only person hurt around here is Hampton.”

“Thanks to me.”

“Okay, if that’s how you want it.”

Hampton, walking now toward the porch, toward his family, bumps into Daniel, and Daniel, with a vivid surge of temper, grabs the gun out of Hampton’s hand. He doesn’t know what he will do with it—he thinks again of simply heaving it—but he is certain that it must no longer be in Hampton’s possession, nor with any of them. He will take it to the river.

Or to the police.Yes, the police . . .

The police the police
. . . He thinks it over and over, incorporating the unfamiliar idea into his little corner of consciousness. And then he turns and sees the police have indeed arrived—Derek Pabst and Jeff Crane.They enter Hampton and Iris’s backyard, exuding confidence and implacability with every long stride.Their service revolvers are still holstered. They hold their caps in their hands, like country folk calling on neighbors.

“Da da da da . . .”

Crane, boyish at forty, with neatly combed reddish hair and a prim, self-righteous mouth, sees that Daniel is holding a gun. Hampton and Iris stand together on the porch.

“You want to place that weapon on the ground, Dan,” Crane says.

Daniel does as he is told, immediately.

“We got a call about someone doing some shooting around here,”

Derek says.

“My fault,” Daniel says, knowing he must, knowing any other answer will cause more trouble than his taking the blame.

Crane picks up the pistol, checks to see if there are any cartridges.

Daniel watches him, wonders if Crane knows how far his daughter, Mercy, has gone to escape his world.

“Da da da da da da da da da da da da da da . . .”

“What the hell is he saying?” Crane asks.

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“He’s all right,” Derek says. “Don’t worry about that.” Then, to Daniel: “Whose gun is this?”

“Mine.”

“Yours?” Derek tucks his chin in, shakes his head. “Why’d you fire it?”

“Derek, come on. Obviously it was an accident.”

“That’s a hell of an accident, man.”

“Was anyone hurt? Did it hit anything?”

“Scared the hell out of at least two people. Enough to call.” Daniel sees it playing out. Derek does not believe him, he knows Daniel hasn’t brought a concealed weapon to this house, but he’s going to let it pass.

“Is this weapon registered in your name?” Crane asks.

“Yes, it is.”

“Mind if we take a look?”

“I don’t have it with me,” Daniel says. He turns away from Crane, directs his request to Derek. “How about I bring in the paperwork a little later on?”

Derek looks at Iris, Hampton, and Nelson on the porch, and the three of them are silent, their faces blank, their gazes slightly averted, as his eyes carefully move over them. Satisfied, Derek turns back toward Daniel and, indicating Ruby, he says, “You’re carrying pretty precious cargo there, buddy.”

“I know, Derek. I know.”

“It would be a hell of a thing.”

“I know.”

“Kate know you’re here?”

“No.”

Derek nods, his lower lip slightly extended. After a silence that seems to go on and on, he asks, “You all right?”

“Me?” asks Daniel.

“Yeah.”

“I’m fine, Derek. Just a stupid mistake.”

Derek gestures to Crane, time to leave. Crane hands the pistol back to Daniel.

a s h i p m a d e o f pa p e r

“You okay?” Derek asks Ruby.

“I’m fine,” she says. “It was stupid.”

While they are talking, Iris, Hampton, and Nelson go inside their house. Daniel doesn’t notice until he hears the door close behind them.

He only wants to go home, but he drives to his office instead. He can no longer afford to pay Sheila Alvarez’s salary—nor can he bear her occasional disdain—and he has cut her hours to two half days a week. When he lets himself into the office he is surprised to see her there. She is at her desk, behind a pile of what looks like at least a hundred files.

“What are you doing here, Sheila?”

“I’ve been going through the files. There’s a lot of people who owe you money, did you know that?”

He shakes his head no.

She looks at him and then she, too, shakes her head. “You poor thing,”

she says. “Just look at you.” She swivels her chair, puts her back to him, and resumes entering numbers on a calculator. “Your parents were here about twenty minutes ago,” she says. “They dropped an envelope on your desk.”

He goes into his office. He and Iris cleared off his desk last time they made love here, and now the only things that are on it are his telephone and the envelope left by Carl and Julia. He opens it.

Dear Dan,

You’re going to think we’ve gone senile, but we’ve decided not to change our wills, after all. The Raptor Center can do without us, and we’re going to keep things the way they were.

Much love,

Mother and Dad

He stares at the words on the page until they blur and swim away. So the birds won’t be getting his parents’ money after all. He buries his face in

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his hands. Was this why he’d come all this way? Had he just been given what he had been seeking all along, this small, glancing caress?

He is exhausted, he feels unequal to the task of his life. He is not put together for such difficulties.

Three hours later, at two in the afternoon, Daniel is in his house, drinking a warm beer, staring out his small living room window at what he can see of the white oak in front, he is crouched deep down into the cellar of himself, waiting for the storm to pass. He does his best to speak kindly and rationally to himself, but he is inconsolable. He thinks of the tone of Iris’s voice as she spoke to him from her porch, the distance, the contempt. As soon as there was anger she spoke to him as if he were, first and foremost, a white man. What happened to love bringing history to its knees? How could all those old adversities be having their way?

He weeps. Stops. Drinks. Belches. Stares.Weeps.Weeps.Tries to talk himself down, as if his life were a drug, a bad, a terrible, a most powerful and devastating drug that he must survive while it works its way through his system.

He has lost everything, and there is nothing he can say to himself that can change that.

Kate will never trust him with Ruby again.

Recoil. Try to think of something else.

Hampton. No. Not now. Something else.

Monkey mind swings from branch to branch.

A perfect, pulverizing memory of falling down those stairs.

My God, there is no safe thought, nothing in his mind that is not lethal.

Ruby’s hands. Kate’s kiss.

Those boys in their masks.

That rocket’s fire in the deep wooded night.

And then, most terribly of all, wherever the monkey swings there is Iris. Her shoes. The smell of her scalp, her breath. The ten thousand details of her life fill the tree and then fly off, a terrifying flutter of wings.

Cut the tree down, pull out the roots, and a river takes its place. And in a s h i p m a d e o f pa p e r

that river she is there. Her hands, the taste of her, her hair, her darkness, her car, her keys, what she might say next.

The phone is on his lap, but it does not ring, nor can he dial it. He cannot hear her voice, not that voice from the porch.
If that’s how you want it.

Hours pass. Darkness bleeds across the floor, he pushes his chair back, afraid to have it touch him.

Then, at last, the phone rings, but he does not answer. It chirps in his lap, the machine comes on, he hears his own terrible voice, and then a dial tone. Night fills the room like floodwater. He lifts his feet, tucks them beneath him.

At eight o’clock, Iris arrives. He first sees her headlights flare against his windows, then he hears her footsteps. She lets herself in without knocking.

“Daniel?” she says softly, into the darkness.

He clears his throat, afraid of his own voice. “Right here,” he says.

She fumbles for a lamp, turns it on, the bulb dull, quite helpless against the night. She is wearing a red T-shirt, baggy shorts, sandals. She is holding a clear blue plastic container of food.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

He can tell by her face what he must look like. There’s nothing to do about that now.

“Thinking.”

She sighs. She understands what that means.

“That was so terrible, Daniel. I’m sorry.”

“
You’re
sorry? Oh my God, Iris. I don’t even know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say. Look.” She holds the plastic container higher.

“I made some rice and beans. Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know.”

She takes his hand, pulls him out of his chair, and leads him to the relative neutrality of the kitchen. She seats him at the table, opens the container, and then finds a fork in the silverware drawer. She sits across from him, gestures for him to eat.

“I put a little extra hot sauce in it,” she says. “The way you like it.”

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He tastes it. Its hotness feels cleansing.

“And hardly any salt,” she says. “I’ve noticed you never salt your food.”

He takes another bite. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday. He sees her glancing quickly at her watch.

“You have to leave?” he asks.

“No. Well, actually, soon.” She gets up, carries her chair next to his, and sits again. She runs her fingers through his hair.

“Who’s home?” he asks.

“I’ve got somebody new, a really sweet Jamaican lady named Sandra.”