Circuit Of Heaven (7 page)

When the silence had settled in, Uncle Winston asked Nemo, “Did you have something you wanted to say?” There was an edge to his voice that added
you little shit
.

“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t think so.”

Winston’s surprise was monumental. “But certainly you must have an opinion, Newman. You’ve always been such a thoughtful young man. We’d all love to hear what you think about the most important issue of the day. You’ve been so quiet all evening.” Uncle Winston looked around at the rest of them as if they were there for one of his town meetings, and Nemo was some heckler from the back row.

Nemo looked at them, too—his family. And at this beautiful woman whose eyes, blazing with anger, were trained on Uncle Winston. Maybe she knows what’s really going on, he thought, that Winston is calling me out to put me in my place, show me who’s in charge here, make me look like some hothead jerk. Nemo looked back to Winston and shrugged his shoulders. “You know what I think, Uncle Winston. I don’t have to say it and upset everybody, spoil my birthday party. It’s getting late anyway. Why don’t Lawrence and I just head on home.”

The leather chair made a smacking sound as he peeled himself off of it and stood up. Lawrence rose silently to his feet.

Uncle Winston feigned surprise and patted his hands on the air in front of him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Newman. Sit down. Sit down. We’re just having a friendly discussion here. We’re all open to a wide range of reasonable opinions.”

As Winston looked around at everybody again to see their nods of approval, Justine scowled and stood to her feet. “Nemo, if you’re leaving, would you mind taking me back to my hotel? If it’s not too much out of your way.”

The smile left Winston’s face like a picture falling off a wall. “I will take you home, Justine, whenever you like.” He’d lurched to his feet and was standing up tall, his shoulders thrown back, but Lawrence towering beside him spoiled the effect. Mom and Dad sat looking up at the four of them as if they were a trapeze act, and one of them was about to fall.

Justine looked Uncle Winston up and down from his silver dome of hair to his black, glistening shoes, and didn’t see a thing she liked. “I’d rather go with Nemo,” she said. Uncle Winston tucked in his chin and didn’t say a word. She offered Nemo her arm, and he took it.

Nemo looked over at Lawrence. The scales around his left eye fluttered in a wink. “Reckon we’ll stay and help your mother clean up,” he drawled. “We’ll catch up with you later.” Nemo didn’t know whether to be glad or terrified that he was going to be alone with Justine.

“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” Justine said to Nemo’s mom and dad, who now rose to their feet, nodding and smiling and saying their goodnights in a daze. She stayed right beside Nemo as they worked their way to the door where Nemo hugged Mom and shook Dad’s hand and went out into the moonlight and cicadas. She took his arm again, and they walked the three blocks to the Metro station before either one of them said anything.

“Why’d you do that?” he asked.

“Because they were pissing me off. That pompous ass baiting you, and your mom and dad letting him.”

Their train rolled into the station, and they got on a car with a few dozen people on it. They sat down close together, side by side. As the train pulled out of the station, he said, “You didn’t have to do that.”

She laughed. “You just don’t get it, do you?” She took his hand and squeezed it. “I like you. I wanted you to take me home.”

They rode through the night, the moon high and full and bright, holding hands all the way to D.C. He thought, I must be dreaming, and in a way, he was.

THOUGH
NEMO
DIDN’T
SAY
TWO
WORDS
TO
JUSTINE
on the train, he held her hand, stared at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Just as she was doing to him now, studying his profile as he gazed out the window, apparently deep in thought. He’s attracted to me, she thought. That’s clear enough. But she hoped it was more than that. She liked him. His dark, deepset eyes had frightened her at first; his intensity had made her uneasy. But there was a fundamental kindness beneath all that thoughtfulness. She’d liked him immediately, instinctively. When she first laid eyes on him, she wanted to know him. And he wanted to know her—she was sure of it—in spite of his silence now.

She couldn’t help noting the irony. She’d met someone in the Bin, but he was only here twice a year, as rare as a solstice. He’d chosen to live outside for seven years. She didn’t know why, though she’d been searching for clues all evening. Before he arrived, his parents cautioned her that their son held “radical views,” but they hadn’t elaborated, and she’d just nodded and smiled, not knowing it would matter to her. Her own reasons for staying out were vague and insubstantial, but his feelings must be stronger than that to keep him out for seven years. Stronger than any attraction he might have for me, she thought. But we’re just spending the evening together. What can be the harm in that?

He turned from the window and caught her staring at him. They looked into each other’s eyes, and she held nothing back from his intense gaze, even though her heart was racing. He looked away, and she realized that she frightened him as well.

SHE
TOOK
HIS
ARM
AS
THEY
GOT
OFF
THE
TRAIN
AT
DUPONT
Circle, and they took a long escalator ride up to the street. He was even more somber now than he’d been on the train. The silence had become unbearable. “What’re you thinking?” she asked.

He said, “I was thinking this escalator probably doesn’t work half the time in the real world.”

The way he said it, she almost felt ashamed for being in here, and immediately resented it. Was it bad that things worked in here? Was it her fault his life was hard out there? She looked down the steep, silver incline they’d just ascended effortlessly. “I guess we’re lucky we’re in here then, huh? I’d hate to have to walk up that.”

He started to say something, but stopped himself. “How far’s the hotel?” he asked.

“A couple of blocks,” she said, and he lengthened his stride. She held onto his arm and matched him stride for stride, then she started pushing it, picking up the pace, hamming it up with long, exaggerated strides. He smiled in spite of himself and slowed to a pace more suitable for walking his sweetheart home. He still didn’t say anything, but when, at her prompting, they stopped to look in a shop window, it was her reflection he looked at, and not the merchandise.

She figured that once they got to the hotel, he planned to bolt. But she didn’t intend to let him leave without an explanation. If he couldn’t trust her with the truth, then maybe it was better he left. That prospect hurt more than she would’ve thought. You’ve just met the guy, she reminded herself. It’s not a big deal. But she knew she was lying. She remembered Angelina in her dream. She was crazy for a guy, too, and look where that got her. But she wasn’t Angelina, and Nemo certainly wasn’t any Steve. Not that she’d mind if he was a little more assertive. She felt like she was doing all the work.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, she thought, like a voice in her head. She couldn’t remember where she’d heard the expression before, but she liked the old-fashioned sound of it. She took it to mean she would have to get in his face.

EVEN
THOUGH
IT
WAS
ALMOST
ELEVEN
O’
CLOCK
,
THE
LOBBYwas still full of people. By the front desk computer was a group of Indians, their luggage piled around them, checking in. They stood around chatting except for a little man in a white linen suit, probably the tour guide, who scurried around counting everybody.

“Buy you a drink?” Justine asked Nemo and nodded toward the bar.

The entrance to the bar was off to her right, a rock archway with
The Grotto
writing itself repeatedly in blue glowing script across the top. It was about half full of couples having drinks, huddled over hurricane lamps. Way back in the darkness someone played drippy piano non-stop. She wondered if anyone else in there was like Nemo, just visiting, having a drink, his real body in a coffin. Maybe Nemo was wondering the same thing.

“I can’t,” he said. “I have to go. Lawrence and I have some stuff planned.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked over at the Indian tourists as if something interesting were happening over there.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to talk to the side of his head. When he finally turned back to her, she looked him in the eye. “What’s going on, Nemo?”

“What do you mean?” He started to look back at the Indians, but settled for the floor between them. Part of her just wanted to drop it. If he wanted to go, let him go. But she at least had to know why. She liked him a lot, still believed he liked her in spite of the way he was acting.

“What I mean is, you act like you’re interested in me all evening—in a sweet, shy sort of way. You don’t say a word on the train, but you sit close to me, hold my hand, look at me all dreamy-eyed. And now, all of a sudden, you’ve got ‘stuff’ to do? Did I miss something?”

He shook his head and spoke to the floor. “I’m sorry. It’s late. I’m tired. Thanks for coming to my birthday party.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me. And by the way, your father was right. What you said was thoughtless. I spoke up to get you off the hook. I guess I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

He raised his head and looked at her, his brow creased with worry and concern. “I’m sorry, Justine.”

“Sorry for what? Just tell me, Nemo. What is it? Does it bother you I came with your Uncle?”

“No. That has nothing to do with it.”

“He asked me out. He seemed nice. He wasn’t. You never made a mistake like that?”

He shook his head and looked into her eyes. “That’s not it at all.”

“Then what is ‘it’? There is an ‘it.’ You just said so.”

“Look Justine, I really like you. I’m glad I got to meet you. But now I’ve got to go home, get something to eat.”

That was too much. “It’s because I’m in the Bin, isn’t it? Why is that such a problem for you, Nemo? Most people are. It’s not catching, you know. I won’t steal your body while you’re not looking.”

His mouth opened and closed a few times before he spoke. “I’m sorry. I just need to get home.”

“Okay. I’ll figure out my own story. You think you’re better than me—because you still live out there in the
real
world? Maybe you’re a Christian—waiting for the Rapture—while I’m a hellbound sinner.”

He put up his hands as if she held a gun on him. “No, I’m not Christian. I’m not anything. I just don’t like the Bin, okay? I don’t think I’m better than you. I think you’re absolutely wonderful. I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re…I just don’t think it’d be such a good idea.”

She couldn’t help smiling at his upraised hands. “I’m what, Nemo?” she prompted.

He lowered his hands. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “I like you very much. But I can’t…I should go.”

“I’m not proposing, Nemo. I’m just asking you to have a drink with me.”

He hesitated, and she reached out and took his hands. “I know you want to,” she said, tugging at him, and he let himself smile. “We can argue sitting down?” she added hopefully, and he laughed—the first time she’d heard him laugh. “See? You’re having fun already.” She slipped her arm around his waist and squeezed. He put his arm around her shoulders, and they walked into the
Grotto
.

THEY
FOUND
A
TABLE
AS
FAR
AWAY
FROM
THE
PIANO
player as they could get. He was playing a medley of themes from old romantic virtuals with elaborate arpeggios thrown in every other measure. Justine imagined the actors about to embrace, distracted and foolish in the swirl of notes, imagined she knew exactly how they felt.

They selected their drinks by touching icons on the tabletop. The hurricane lamp slid over to one side, and the drinks rose out of the middle of the table on a little elevator, the glasses wet with condensation. When they picked up their drinks, the elevator descended, and the hurricane lamp slid back into place.

He laughed again, not a happy laugh this time, but an ironic little chuckle, as dark as the bar they were sitting in.

“What’s funny?” she asked.

He pointed at the hurricane lamp where the drinks had been. “It’s such a Bin thing—these silly gizmos like that. Seems like you could do anything in here—the drinks could appear floating in the air or something—but instead it’s just hokey shit like that.”

“Is that what you don’t like about the Bin—the silly gizmos?”

He ran his thumb along the rim of his glass. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“I can do complicated,” she said. “You said I was smart, remember? In your parents’ garden? You haven’t changed your mind since then, have you?”

He smiled at the thought. “No, you’re even smarter than I figured.”

“And why is that?”

“Well for one thing, you talked me into coming into this bar.”

“That wasn’t hard. You wanted to come.”

He nodded. “Yes I did, very much. How did you know that?”

She smiled and pointed at the hurricane lamp. “My little secret. So tell me what’s funny.”

He tapped on the hurricane lamp. “Okay, take this business. It’s supposed to look like a machine—everybody understands machines. If the drinks just floated in the air like I said before, people couldn’t process that as real, so they made up this thing. Everything’s supposed to seem real in here. Now, I could build one of these on the outside without too much trouble, but the important difference between this one and the one I’d build, is that mine would change. I’d have to keep it working—replace parts, lubricate it, adjust it. It’d still break down sometimes no matter what I did. No one ever works on this one. It’s just there, somebody’s idea of a neat way to get a drink. It never wears out. There are no moving parts. No parts at all in here. Ideas don’t have parts.”