Otherworld (13 page)

Mike: Isn't that what happens in most love stories?

Molly: What? A nun?

Mike: No, two people meet under common circumstances and then fall in love.

Molly: I guess, but I'm not in one of
those
love stories. I'm in this one.

Mike: True.

Molly: Why are you smiling?

Mike: What? Oh, no reason. Let's see … [shuffling of papers]

Molly: You're not very organized.

Mike: Yeah … sorry. Let's see … have you had much acting experience?

Molly: In some church Christmas pageants when I was a kid. And in high school.

Mike: Did you sing in any of those?

Molly: Yeah. We did
The Music Man
, and I got to sing in that. And I was in the glee club, so I sang in that, too.

Mike: Okay …

Molly: You're smiling again. Why are you smiling?

Mike: I didn't know I was. Sorry.

Molly: No big deal.

Mike: Sorry. Okay, tell me about your life, now. Do you want to go into acting as a profession?

Molly: I don't know. It'd be neat, but there are just so many people out there, and it takes a lot of time and effort and patience to be successful at it.

Mike: What do you plan to do, then?

Molly: Good question. I don't know. I guess graduate and find a job. Fall in love and get married.

Mike: Like Maria von Trapp?

Molly: Yeah. Like that. You're smiling again.

Mike: Is it wrong for me to be smiling?

Molly: No.

Mike: Now
you're
smiling.

 

The heavy doors of the Regal Theater, one of the few in Houston that showed movies late into the night (that you didn't have to be twenty-one to view), swung open, and Mike Walsh staggered out like a cowpoke exiting through the swinging batwings of a saloon. He stepped into the icy 1:00 a.m. air. He had watched Clint Eastwood in Sergio Leone's
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
alone in the empty theater, and that was a good thing, because for some reason, he brought his pistol. It was stuffed into the inside pocket of his thick winter coat, and he had brandished it during the film's shootout scenes, playing along like he was in that world. He pointed it at the screen and fired it several times, but there were no bullets. Just an empty click. He shot nothingness out of a little gun, and it was good that no one had been present to witness his little game. If there
had
, he most certainly would have been finishing his night in a jail cell. He was alone in a room with a classic Western and his own delirium.

He was drunk. He walked slowly with erratic steps and stared intently at the ground. His beige import waited for him around the corner, but he wandered in the opposite direction, either forgetting about it or not caring about it. He meandered into and out of the street.

Uptown Houston sat empty as a ghost town. A biting winter wind stung his cheeks, but he hardly noticed. There were no bums out on the stoops. None huddled together under handout blankets or warmed their hands over barrel fires on the street corners. He heard the faint hum of traffic in the distance but saw no cars. Not that he was looking. His eyes glared down at the shuffling of his feet. Overhead, stretching on into the night before him, the streetlights lining the sidewalk were the only signs of life around, pulsating bluish gas and drawing in orbits of dying moths. Mike stuffed his numb hands into his coat pockets. The fingertips of his right hand encountered the butt of the pistol and rested there. He caressed it with his index finger.

The sky frowned darkly upon him. There was no moon. Only a trail of streetlights. And darkness.

He stepped off the sidewalk into the street and did not notice the car that was speeding toward him. The lady inside punched the horn, and Mike awoke, though still heavily dazed, and spun to face two searing headlights that had joined into one blinding force. He stiffened, frozen like a scared deer in the mesmerizing shaft of light. The lady slammed on her brakes, and the tires screeched against the pavement, bathing the moment with the pungent odor of burned rubber. Her scream was muffled because her windows were up, but Mike could still hear it: “What do you think you're doing?” The car lurched forward and grinded to a halt ten yards from the human obstruction in the road.

It seemed so unreal to Mike. Vivid, but unreal. Like a movie. Like a Western movie. Facing a showdown, he promptly whisked the pistol out of his coat pocket in one fluid motion and pointed it at the windshield of the car.

The lady freaked, screaming and stomping the gas pedal, launching the car dangerously forward and into Mike. He tried to jump up (
just like in the movies
, he thought), and he landed hip down on the hood, denting it heavily, and slammed into the windshield with the entire left side of his body. It groaned inward, cracking down the middle, but it did not shatter. The lady slammed on the brakes, and Mike tumbled off of the hood onto the cold, hard asphalt. She jerked the wheel harshly to the right and sped off, no doubt in search of a telephone or a policeman, whichever presented itself first.

Mike's body jolted with adrenaline, which accomplished two things: to mask any feeling of his injuries and to force him to run. He ran as fast as he could, fueled by the sudden flash of energy and by fright. For the first time in hours, clear thought dominated his brain, and his head turned right to left and left to right, eyes darting in frantic search of shelter. Someplace to hide.
And maybe to die.

The police would never find him, though.

Mike didn't know that, though. He kept running, lungs working in overdrive, as if the chase was already on. He imagined a searchlight scanning the walls along the sidewalk and his feet always staying just out of its scope of illumination. Four miles and an infinite number of chest-burning breaths later, he collapsed in the gutter near a drainage opening in the street curb. The TransCo building loomed above him, gothic and haunting. The fountain sculpture everyone called The Water Wall sat in the building's shadow, in the middle of a lonely park, but the flow of water had been turned off a long time ago. The Wall just stood there. Mysterious. Houston's own Stonehenge. Steam from the sewer eased out of the drainage slit and drifted over him. The fog of the moors. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. A dull throb of pain began first in his hip, the onset of recognizing his injuries, and then spread throughout his frame, as if charting the course of impact. The hip. The rib cage. The shoulder. Then, his entire body, foot to skull, ached furiously. He glanced back at his hands. His wedding ring!

Where is it?

He began to sob and scrape the rough pavement with his bloody hands, hoping to find it. He scrambled around on his hands and knees, searching the area around him. He dug in his pockets. The manhole cover atop the sidewalk caught his eye, and he thought for a moment of ripping it off and diving down.

It could've fallen into the drain.

The wildness of the notion itself urged him to do it, but it was the wildness of the notion that jerked him into reality and made him decide against it.

Tears and sweat dripped down his face and deposited in his mouth, a place where blood had already taken up residence. Once again, he collapsed to the ground, a heap of sobs and sniffles and fear of broken bones and internal hemorrhaging. A heap of broken man.

I've lost everything.

A car pulled up, and its door opened. Mike heard the click-clack of footsteps approaching. He expected the police. Instead, a concerned voice, familiar yet unidentifiable, spoke out, shattering the chilly silence.

“Mike. Mike, are you all right?”

Mike turned and squinted his vision into focus. “Dr. Bering?”

“Yes, it's me. Come on, now. Let's see if we can get you up and into the car.”

The professor helped him to his feet and half led, half carried him to the passenger side of his car. He helped Mike in, fastened the safety belt around him, and shut the door. He crossed to the driver's side and got in.

“How did you know where I was?” Mike asked.

“A little bird told me,” Bering replied, and he drove the car off into the night.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sitting comfortably on the couch, Mike had buried his hand in a bowl of Crunchy Cheese Twisters and was watching television. The Texans were losing. Again.

In the ongoing world behind him, a world from which he had excused himself at opening kickoff, his wife, Molly, was milling about. Cleaning. Or looking for something. Mike wasn't sure what she was doing, but he didn't give it much thought. Doors opened and closed. Drawers slid in and out. There was a sound resembling the working of a zipper. None of these registered. Like a tree falling in the woods without a witness, it wasn't really happening.

It didn't occur to him that all the noises were telltale signs of someone who was packing (and from the extent of the carrying-on, packing for a very long trip). No, it didn't occur to him until she was standing before him, blocking his view of the television screen, a leather suitcase in hand (HOPE YOU HAVE MANY WONDERFUL TRIPS WITH THIS! CONGRATULATIONS! YOU'LL SHARE A BEAUTIFUL LIFE TOGETHER! LOVE, AUNT JENNY).

“Bye, Mike,” Molly said.

“Huh?” he said.

He did not recall hearing anything about a trip. Or had he? He wasn't sure, but he thought that if she had a vacation planned, he would have known about it. For goodness' sake, he would have had her freeze all of his meals for him in plastic containers if he had known she wasn't going to be around to cook. He would have had her wash all of his clothes before she left, so he would have them ready to wear while she was gone. But something in her eyes did not hint
vacation
. Nothing indicated
trip
. Her eyes said,
I'm LEAVING, you idiot!
And then, her mouth said: “I'm leaving” (sparingly, without the
you idiot
).

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“What do you think? I'm leaving. I'm going.”

“What? Why?”

“
Because
, Mike!” Her eyes filled with tears.

“I don't understand.”

“Of course you don't understand. You never understand. You never understand anything. I'm leaving you, and that's what I'm doing.”

“What? Why?” he asked.

“Because you're never
here
, Mike!”

What was that supposed to mean? She clutched her hand to her chest upon the word
here
, like she meant “in her rib cage.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“I'm talking about you and me and how you're never here.”

“I'm right here!” he yelled. He always ended up yelling in times of conflict with her, and he always regretted it immediately, but he never stopped.

“I don't mean here at the house. I mean with me.” Now
she
raised her voice. “I want you here with me!”

Why do women always have to speak in code?
“I'm right here!” Then, he added, “I've been right here all freakin' day!”

“That's what I mean. You've been here and not with me. I want you to
talk
to me. To come
be
with me.”

“I've been right here!” He started to feel like a parrot now.
Repeat the line; everything's fine!
“I've been right here!”

She said nothing. Maybe she couldn't explain. Maybe she already had, maybe she'd tried in all of their other arguments. Maybe all the resolutions of all of those other arguments amounted to no resolution at all. Her tears came down endlessly, and she sniffed and gasped.

“I've been right here,” Mike said. “Right here on the couch. If you wanted to talk, why didn't you come to talk to me? Why didn't you come tell me?”

She gasped out, “Because I want you to come to me. Because I've
been
wanting you to come to me. You've changed, Mike. You're not the same anymore. You used to want to be with me.”

He still wanted to be with her. Why couldn't she see that? He loved her. Couldn't she see that? Didn't
she
love
him
? Why was this happening?

“Now you just watch TV or read or work—”

He lashed out. “I
have
to work, Molly! You want me to just give it up? To quit? How do you think we even live in this house if I don't work?” It was a stupid counterattack that got him nowhere, and he knew it.

“I know that,” she cried. “It's just … you do all
that
and you never have time for me! You never
make
time for me. You're devoted to your job, but only fairly acquainted with your wife!”

“What's that supposed to mean?” He was going in circles now. He had to. He had to do anything to keep this argument going. It was certainly better than watching her walk out the door. The suitcase, still in her hand, had done its job very well. It was a sign, a symbol, a signal. He began to stare at it. The suitcase.

HOPE YOU HAVE MANY WONDERFUL TRIPS WITH THIS!
Yeah, well, thanks a lot, Aunt Jenny! As a matter of fact, Molly's about to take one now!

The suitcase was the exclamation point. Her mind was made up, and she was going.

“I've been living in this house
alone
for the past few years,” she cried, “and I can't stand it anymore!”

He could think of nothing to say, so she ended it:

“Bye.”

And she was gone.

He couldn't say a word. He just watched the door close, and a feeling of coldness spread out from the center of his chest.

He sat on the couch—motionless, dazed—for hours and hours and hours …

… Slowly, winding back in a counterclockwise spiral, came consciousness. Light. Then darkness. Light. Then dark. Light …

… And the smooth sailing of music on the waves of the air.

Mike opened his eyes and found himself in a room he had never been in before. Panic began to set in, and he tried to move, but when he did, every nerve in his body screamed, and pain lit up his bones and muscles and flesh with a violent fury. He stopped. Looking straight out, he saw a wall … no, a ceiling, and he realized he was lying down.

Now consciousness filled him completely, and he recognized the music as Beethoven. The sharp pain in his body reminded him of the events of the night, and he realized he lay either in a hospital or in Dr. Bering's home.

“Dr. Bering?” he called out, though rather weakly.

“Right here,” came the man's voice. It was smooth.

“What … what … Am I okay?” he finally asked.

“Amazingly, you've nothing but bruises and scratches, although you've got a good helping of them.”

“Shouldn't I be in a hospital?”

“You don't remember?”

“Remember what?” Mike asked.

“When I picked you up?”

“Yeah, I remember that.”

“Well, I took you to a friend of mine, a physician. I wasn't quite sure if I should take you to a hospital. You had that gun with you. Your eyes were open, and you were responsive, even answering questions. He examined you and released you into my care. You even walked to the car. You don't remember that?”

“No,” Mike said. “I don't remember that at all.”

“Do you remember anything?”

Did he? “Yes,” he said, pausing. “The, uh—football.”

“I see,” said Bering, apparently not seeing at all.

“Yeah. But I remember … I remember Molly.”

“Is Molly your wife?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, we'd better give her a call.”

Yes. We'd certainly better. She'll be quite concerned. So, why don't we? Oh, yeah …
“She … she no longer lives here. She's moved.”

Dr. Bering offered a simple, “Oh.”

“What did you tell your friend?”

“The same thing you told him. You had a motorbike accident.” He smiled. “Would you like to tell me what really happened?”

Mike told him the entire story. The movie. The pistol (which Bering had recovered and secured). The lady and her car. The wedding ring. The unfortunate background for the story, which concluded with Bering's rescue of Mike from the gutter and the dream he had just escaped from (although it had really happened, and there was no escaping
that
).

Mike slept for another hour, and when he awoke, Dr. Bering had some vegetable soup for him. It was warm and filling and seemed to melt away the spreading cold that had lingered in his chest since the dream. They sat together, saying nothing for a long time, listening to Beethoven, then Brahms, then Wagner, then Mozart—just bits and pieces of each, according to Bering's taste.

Mike felt comfortable and somehow whole. He felt, although he would never have described it this way,
loved
.

“Dr. Bering?”

“Yes?” he answered, and he looked very much like a man who had guessed exactly what Mike intended to ask. He had poised himself as if ready for it.

“Talk to me about hyperspace.”

“Sure, Mike. I'd be happy to.”

 

Molly Walsh sat in her sister Vickie's living room and stared at a painting on the wall. It was one of Vickie's works, an original, and it was in impressionist or expressionist style (Molly never could remember the difference), but she was not quite sure what it meant. To her, it looked very much like a big finger painting. She recognized the vague shape of a person, swirled about in broad, colorful strokes, but the area around it was formless. Just huge swirls and swishes of yellows and blues mixing here and there into vibrant greens, all swimming about and splashing into waves of thickness that had taken days to harden. Whatever it was, Vickie had many more just like it, and people were buying them left and right. She'd recently done a showing of her work in a private gallery in Houston—her first foray outside her local network of artists. Molly went with her. There were hors d'oeuvres, obnoxious and erudite art collectors, and walls and walls of Vickie's giant finger paintings. And then, of course, there had been lunch with Mike.

Dear Mike. Molly felt bad for him. He seemed to be trying very hard not to try at all. He kept the conversation clear of talk about their relationship. He didn't mention getting back together. He had tried to put on a cheery face and failed miserably. Molly assumed that Mike did not want to come on too strong, to scare her away. But in the process, where she had sought his needing of her, had been silently reaching for him to
say
something to the effect that he desired her, she found him only able to
do
something. And that something resembled the actions of a wounded animal strutting about in an attempt to fool his predator.

But she was not a predator. Couldn't he see that? Couldn't he see how much she wanted him? How badly she wanted him to tell her he had changed? That was all she needed. That's all it would have taken. At least, that's what she told herself as she numbly watched the finger-painted lady drown in the finger-painted seas. But Mike always felt attacked.

Sitting across from him in the restaurant, she wanted to reach across and take his hand … no, she wanted to slip over to his side of the booth and give him a big hug. A long, lingering embrace that would put an end to the whole wretched situation. When she left the restaurant, though, she was glad she hadn't. She did not want to torture him. Leaving was not intended to hurt him. She knew that it would, but it was not her reason. She really did not know what her reason was, if she ever even had one. Perhaps waking him up was a reason. Nevertheless, she had decided long before she left that she could not live that way. Mike knew this, because she had told him. Several times. And every time, he would say things would be different, and they were not. Ultimately, she left to authenticate her words with truth. She could not live like that, and when he decided she would have to, she decided to make good on her warning. And she left. It was the hardest thing she had ever done, but it did not bother her as much as she had thought it would. The fact that he said nothing as she walked out, only sat on the couch with a blank expression on his face, made it easier for her.

She knew he missed her. She could feel it. From so many miles away, she could feel it. She hated herself for not taking his calls for so long. Vickie would say she couldn't come to the phone or she had just stepped out to go to the grocery store. It felt like the cruel game teenage girls play when an unwanted suitor calls.

“Who is it?”

“Mike.”

“Tell him I'm not here.”

Finally, he had given up. No more calls.