All of Us (21 page)

The corpse fosters anxiety in men who believe

in the Last Judgment, and those who don’t.

—
ANDRÉ MALRAUX

He buried his wife, who’d died in

misery. In misery, he

took to his porch, where he watched

the sun set and the moon rise.

The days seemed to pass, only to return

again. Like a dream in which one thinks,

I’ve already dreamt that.

Nothing, having arrived, will stay.

With his knife he cut the skin

from an apple. The white pulp, body

of the apple, darkened

and turned brown, then black,

before his eyes. The worn-out face of death!

The lightning speed of the past.

They waited all day for the sun to appear. Then,

late in the afternoon, like a good prince,

it showed itself for a few minutes.

Blazing high over the benchland that lies at the foot

of the peaks behind their borrowed house.

Then the clouds were drawn once more.

They were happy enough. But all evening

the curtains made melancholy gestures,

swishing in front of the open windows. After dinner

they stepped onto the balcony.

Where they heard the river plunging in the canyon and,

closer, the creak of trees, sigh of boughs.

The tall grasses promised to rustle forever.

She put her hand on his neck. He touched her cheek.

Then bats came from all sides to harry them back.

Inside, they closed the windows. Kept their distance.

Watched a procession of stars. And, once in a while,

creatures that flung themselves in front of the moon.

The girl in the lobby reading a leather-bound book.

The man in the lobby using a broom.

The boy in the lobby watering plants.

The desk clerk looking at his nails.

The woman in the lobby writing a letter.

The old man in the lobby sleeping in his chair.

The fan in the lobby revolving slowly overhead.

Another hot Sunday afternoon.

Suddenly, the girl lays her finger between the pages of

    her book.

The man leans on his broom and looks.

The boy stops in his tracks.

The desk clerk raises his eyes and stares.

The woman quits writing.

The old man stirs and wakes up.

What is it?

Someone is running up from the harbor.

Someone who has the sun behind him.

Someone who is barechested.

Waving his arms.

It’s clear something terrible has happened.

The man is running straight for the hotel.

His lips are working themselves into a scream.

Everyone in the lobby will recall their terror.

Everyone will remember this moment for the rest of their lives.

The wind is level now. But pails of rain

fell today, and the day before,

and the day before that, all the way back

to Creation. The buildings

in the old slave quarter are dissolving,

and nobody cares. Not the ghosts

of the old slaves, or the young.

The water feels good on their whipped backs.

They could cry with relief.

No sunsets in this place. Light one minute,

and then the stars come out.

We could look all night in vain

for the Big Dipper. Down here

the Southern Cross is our sign.

I’m sick of the sound of my own voice!

Uneasy, and dreaming

of rum that could split my skull open.

There’s a body lying on the stairs.

Step over it. The lights in the tower

have gone out. A spider hops from the man’s

hair. This life. I’m saying it’s one

amazing thing after the other.

Lines of men in the street,

as opposed to lines of poetry.

Choose! Are you guilty or not guilty?

What else have you? he answered.

Well, say the house was burning.

Would you save the cat or the Rembrandt?

That’s easy. I don’t have a Rembrandt,

and I don’t have a cat. But I have

a sorrel horse back home

that I want to ride once more

into the high country.

Soon enough we’ll rot under the earth.

No truth to this, just a fact.

We who gave each other so much

happiness while alive —

we’re going to rot. But we won’t

rot in this place. Not here.

Arms shackled together.

Jesus, the very idea of such a thing!

This life. These shackles.

I shouldn’t bring it up.

I woke up feeling wiped out. God knows

where I’ve been all night, but my feet hurt.

Outside my window, a phenomenon is taking place.

The sun and moon hang side-by-side over the water.

Two sides of the same coin. I climb from bed

slowly, much as an old man might maneuver

from his musty bed in midwinter, finding it difficult

for a moment even to make water! I tell myself

this has to be a temporary condition.

In a few years, no problem. But when I look out

the window again, there’s a sudden swoop of feeling.

Once more I’m arrested with the beauty of this place.

I was lying if I ever said anything to the contrary.

I move closer to the glass and see it’s happened

between this thought and that. The moon

is gone. Set, at last.

Water perfectly calm. Perfectly amazing.

Flocks of birds moving

restlessly. Mystery enough in that, God knows.

You ask if I have the time. I do.

Time to go in. Fish not biting

anyway. Nothing doing anywhere.

When, a mile away, we see wind

moving across the water. Sit quiet and

watch it come. Nothing to worry about.

Just wind. Not so strong. Though strong enough.

You say, “Look at that!”

And we hold on to the gunwales as it passes.

I feel it fan my face and ears. Feel it

ruffle my hair—sweeter, it seems,

than any woman’s fingers.

Then turn my head and watch

it move on down the Strait,

driving waves before it.

Leaving waves to flop against

our hull. The birds going crazy now.

Boat rocking from side to side.

“Jesus,” you say, “I never saw anything like it.”

“Richard,” I say —

“You’ll never see that in Manhattan, my friend.”

A late summer’s day, and my friend on the court

with his friend. Between games, the other remarks

how my friend’s step seems not to have any spring

to it. His serve isn’t so hot, either.

“You feeling okay?” he asks. “You had a checkup

lately?” Summer, and the living is easy.

But my friend went to see a doctor friend of his.

Who took his arm and gave him three months, no longer.

When I saw him a day later, it

was in the afternoon. He was watching TV.

He looked the same, but—how should I say it? —

different. He was embarrassed about the TV

and turned the sound down a little. But he couldn’t

sit still. He circled the room, again and again.

“It’s a program on animal migration,” he said, as if this

might explain everything.

I put my arms around him and gave him a hug.

Not the really big hug I was capable of. Being afraid

that one of us, or both, might go to pieces.

And there was the momentary, crazy and dishonorable

thought —

this might be catching.

I asked for an ashtray, and he was happy

to range around the house until he found one.

We didn’t talk. Not then. Together we finished watching

the show. Reindeer, polar bears, fish, waterfowl,

butterflies and more. Sometimes they went from one

continent, or ocean, to another. But it was hard

to pay attention to the story taking place on screen.

My friend stood, as I recall, the whole time.

Was he feeling okay? He felt fine. He just couldn’t

seem to stay still, was all. Something came into his eyes

and went away again. “What in hell are they talking about?”

he wanted to know. But didn’t wait for an answer.

Began to walk some more. I followed him awkwardly

from room to room while he remarked on the weather,

his job, his ex-wife, his kids. Soon, he guessed,

he’d have to tell them … something.

“Am I really going to die?”

What I remember most about that awful day

was his restlessness, and my cautious hugs—
hello, goodbye.

He kept moving until

we reached the front door and stopped.

He peered out, and drew back as if astounded

it could be light outside. A bank of shadow

from his hedge blocked the drive. And shadow fell

from the garage onto his lawn. He walked me to the car.

Our shoulders bumped. We shook hands, and I hugged him

once more. Lightly. Then he turned and went back,

passing quickly inside, closing the door. His face

appeared behind the window, then was gone.

He’ll be on the move from now on. Traveling night and day,

without cease, all of him, every last exploding piece

of him. Until he reaches a place only he knows about.

An Arctic place, cold and frozen. Where he thinks,

This is far enough. This is the place.

And lies down, for he is tired.

He slept on his hands.

On a rock.

On his feet.

On someone else’s feet.

He slept on buses, trains, in airplanes.

Slept on duty.

Slept beside the road.

Slept on a sack of apples.

He slept in a pay toilet.

In a hayloft.

In the Super Dome.

Slept in a Jaguar, and in the back of a pickup.

Slept in theaters.

In jail.

On boats.

He slept in line shacks and, once, in a castle.

Slept in the rain.

In blistering sun he slept.

On horseback.

He slept in chairs, churches, in fancy hotels.

He slept under strange roofs all his life.

Now he sleeps under the earth.

Sleeps on and on.

Like an old king.

I waded, deepening, into the dark water.

Evening, and the push

and swirl of the river as it closed

around my legs and held on.

Young grilse broke water.

Parr darted one way, smolt another.

Gravel turned under my boots as I edged out.

Watched by the furious eyes of king salmon.

Their immense heads turned slowly,

eyes burning with fury, as they hung

in the deep current.

They were there. I felt them there,

and my skin prickled. But

there was something else.

I braced with the wind on my neck.

Felt the hair rise

as something touched my boot.

Grew afraid at what I couldn’t see.

Then of everything that filled my eyes —

that other shore heavy with branches,

the dark lip of the mountain range behind.

And this river that had suddenly

grown black and swift.

I drew breath and cast anyway.

Prayed nothing would strike.

Cool summer nights.

Windows open.

Lamps burning.

Fruit in the bowl.

And your head on my shoulder.

These the happiest moments in the day.

Next to the early morning hours,

of course. And the time

just before lunch.

And the afternoon, and

early evening hours.

But I do love

these summer nights.

Even more, I think,

than those other times.

The work finished for the day.

And no one who can reach us now.

Or ever.

It’s afternoon when he takes off

his clothes and lies down.

Lights his cigarette. Ashtray

balanced over his heart.

The chest rising, then

sinking

as he draws, holds it,

and lets the smoke out in spurts.

The shades are drawn. His eyelids

closing. It’s like after sex,

a little. But only a little.

Waves thrash below the house.

He finishes the cigarette.

All the while thinking

of Thomas More who,

according to Erasmus, “liked eggs”

and never lay with his second wife.

The head stares down at its trunk

until it thinks it has it

memorized and could recognize

it anywhere, even in death.

But now the desire to sleep

has left him, utterly.

He is still remembering More

and his hair shirt. After thirty years of wear

he handed it over, along with his cloak,

before embracing his executioner.

He gets up to raise the shades.

Light slices the room in two.

A boat slowly rounds the hook

with its sails lowered.

There’s a milky haze

over the water. A silence there.

It’s much too quiet.

Even the birds are still.

Somewhere, off in another room,

something has been decided.

A decision reached, papers signed

and pushed aside.