The Indestructible Man (20 page)

       
Though I was desperately nauseous, I pulled myself up from the table and wandered into the garage, to my old workbench and tool chest. I threw wrenches and socket sets and hammers onto the cement floor until I found the old hatchet I once used to chop down the crabapple tree that drooped over the Whisks’ yard. We burned it for firewood all that winter, a sweet and smoky warmth.

       
I hiked across the yard and out toward the field, where children were playing on the gate around the ladder. As soon as they saw me they ran, screaming that a crazy old man was threatening them with an ax. I grabbed the top of the fence and slowly hoisted one leg over, then the other—no longer an easy task, but the alcohol dulled the pain and stiffness. I stood at the base of the ladder and looked into the sky, trying to spot the catwalks high above. They were thin, almost invisible against the dusky sky, like spider webs. I squinted and looked hard; this was your very last chance, and if you were not already sliding down the ladder there was no further hope. Not a single figure interrupted the endless, flat line of oak and iron.

       
I reared back and swung the ax at the nearest strut.

       
 
The blade hit hard, cutting a thin chip in the ancient grayish-brown wood. The strut held, but a shock traveled through the blade, up the handle and into my arms, and I felt my bones vibrate. I shook off the shooting pain in my shoulders and swung again, hacking another inch into the column.

       
As I chopped a light came on in the Whisks’ kitchen window, and Edith shuffled across the grass in slippers and a pink floral housecoat. She was yelling something, but I could not hear over the chopping and did not care to listen. She hoisted herself over the fence, landing hard.

       
“Stop it!” she screamed, running toward me, arms flailing, fists curled into tense balls. “Edgar, stop it!”

       
She hooked her arm round my elbow to lessen the blow, but I pushed her to the ground and swung again. My arms were sore and growing numb, but I had chopped a wedge a third of the way through the wooden strut—only a few more strokes would send it hurtling down.

       
“Stop,” she said again, crying. “I know you’re upset about Gloria. But please. Eddie...”

       
“...is not coming back,” I huffed. Before I could raise the ax again I felt a hand grip my shoulder and forcibly spin me around. Abbott’s fist hit my temple like a cinder block, and for the next few minutes all I knew was the ringing in my ears and the grass against my face. I felt strong fingers pry the ax from my limp hand, heard feet shuffle away through the grass, and Edith’s high voice crying, “Eddie....”

       
I lay there for a long time, the grass moistening around me, snails and beetles crawling across my hand, just another obstacle to them. As the air became chilly I decided I no longer had the strength to pull myself up, no longer even
wanted
to, so I thought it best to lie there and let the elements take me. The cicadas droned in my ears, and after a while I closed my eyes, and all was silent and dark.

       
When I woke face-down in crabgrass the sun was up, and I was shivering. I lay in the cold dewy grass a while longer, disappointed that I was still alive. I turned over to look at the sky and noticed the heavy blanket wrapped around me, the folds tucked gently under my sides. My jaw fell open and the air rushed back into my lungs. I finally struggled to my feet; dragging the blanket behind me, I trudged back across the field, toward home.

       
And here I am
, this morning, wrapped in the blanket I left for you, in the same kitchen where I watched you climb away from the world. I am tired, my left eye is purple and swollen, my head burns from my eyes to the base of my skull, and my stomach could not possibly expel anything more. But I am not as weighted down as before, and my breathing is easier. Good sense tells me I am probably still drunk; my tolerance for scotch disappeared long ago. It tells me the blanket was probably Edith’s doing; though I threw her to the ground and tried to sever her only link to her son, she might have taken pity on me. Or some jogger happened to pass by and tried to save me from hypothermia. But I do not listen. You are
here
, somewhere close.

       
So though my arms are stiff from age and exertion, the rungs slippery with dew, I will wash away my hangover with a glass of water and a handful of aspirin, my fear with a deep breath or two. I will march across the field, past the Whisks’ house and the grass still stained with blood from my eye, roll up my sleeves and crack my knuckles, grasp the ancient wood, and climb. I am not sure I will be able to reach you, but as I hoist myself up rung by rung I will try not to be afraid, and I will not look down.

Mary Magdalene Talks To The Street Sweeper

(
for Richard
Shindell
)

       
You cannot ask me to move along
, and there is no need to push past me. I am small, and easy to go around. Do not think you can run me off, either; my stool has cracked open a head or two, and I can swing it harder than you might think. But if you like, we can talk like civilized people. You can even borrow my stool; my knees are stiff and sore, and I need to get up every so often to stretch my legs.

       
This stool was a gift from a carpenter after many years of discrete service. It has followed me everywhere. I could get another—one with a shinier finish, a more elegant design—but this one reminds me of happier times.
He
used to sit on it, stretching out his stiff legs so I could brush oil-scented water on his blistered toes with my hair. Then I would undress him, cleanse and massage every part of him, rub with my oil-glazed hands until I had exorcised all the tension from his muscles.

       
It is impolite to ask a woman her age; you should know that. I should not even answer: you will think I am a senile old cow escaped from the nursing home a few blocks down. I will tell you what I tell everyone:
old enough
. Even I cannot explain why I am still alive. It may be because I touched his cold gray skin as the blood returned, or because I am simply too stubborn to die: no one who knew me back then would argue. I have been in more beds than you could ever count; I have watched a delicate, scrawny man who snored, had dirty, callused feet, and who giggled like a little girl after two cups of wine become an emblem on the stained-glass windows of the church around the corner. I could easily pin him to the bed; though he would try to wriggle out of my grasp, he could not escape. But he was patient and simple and kind—the only man I have ever loved, or ever will.

       
The night before he died I thought I could save him by clinging to his robes, pulling him down and wrapping my arms and legs around his body to keep him from leaving. He cried when he finally jerked his leg free: I think he wanted to be weighed down, safe in my warm grip. But he left me crouching in the dust, clinging to his sandal, the only piece of him I had left.

       
For two days after he died I lay shrouded in blankets on my bed, still clinging to his cast-off sandal, wondering if I should pitch myself into the little stream near the village, let the warm rippling water fill my lungs and carry me off.

       
You know the rest: he came back, stayed a while—a celebration. Before he left for good, he leaned over the tablecloth soaked with spilled wine and littered with bread and salt, and kissed me. In a voice I could barely hear over the chatter, he whispered, “I’ll come back for you. Wait for me.” Then he walked out of the little cottage and was gone.

       
I went home and sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, thinking of his warm body beside me, his arm draped across my belly, and waited for a sign. I did not know what to look for, and for a long time birds fluttering outside my window, the clunky wheels of a wagon, led me to throw open the door, expecting to see him come to gather me up. I did not ask for a tree split by lightning or a fiery image in the sky, just something small—an olive leaf blowing against the wind, a patch of grass in the desert sand. I was not choosy.

       
I watched for a long time, but saw nothing. Even then I did not lose hope; he had promised, and while few men kept their promises to me, he had always been sincere.

       
Of course I could not stay long in that house. I replaced the sheets we’d slept on, scoured the wash basin, scrubbed down every wall, but I could feel him in every corner, could even smell his sweaty hair on the pillow. So I left my home and wandered, losing track of time and distance, dragging this stool behind me in search of some peaceful spot to sit and wait away from the noise and crowds.

       
But I have not spent all these years shuffling my feet and waiting around. Walking the earth is not cheap, and I am not fond of spending nights sleeping by heating ducts and wrapped in newspapers. Because men will pay for almost anything, I am always fed and sheltered. Call me faithless if you want—I have heard worse. I will not apologize. The body wants what it wants; in the end it is just bone and meat. Only the soul matters, and in that I am his alone.

       
But you cannot wander for so long without loneliness. Some nights it is a gnawing pang in the middle of my chest, dulled only by the tedium of traveling; others I feel a part of me has been hollowed out and filled with sand. After each night’s benefactor has tossed his money on the bedside table and heaved his way back into his saggy checkered trousers, I am left naked in a cocoon of scratchy hotel sheets, watching the narrow strips of sunlight fade through the blinds, wondering if dying might be better than this endless wait.

       
I tried to give up once, not long ago. I had spent a sweaty hour under a fat old man, unable to move or breathe. At such times there is little to do but think, and I began to doubt something good would ever come of my patience. I remembered a pink-haired old woman who, trying to be kind, told me his
spirit
was still with me, though the man was gone. But you cannot feel a spirit’s sweat-drenched skin against your own, lie with it under an olive tree, take its hand and dance to the tune of street musicians. A spirit will not touch its
stubbled
cheek to yours and whisper into your ear that, no matter how much time passes, it will come back for you. The
man
made me that promise. But if he intended to return, he would already have come.

       
After my customer tiptoed out in the dark, I lay on the cheap, musty mattress, stared at the ceiling, and allowed myself to rest, my heart slowing, lungs sluggish as honey. I felt my body separating from the world, the constant buzz of the small refrigerator fading to a distant hum. As my skin began to cool, the breeze outside became a strong wind, and a rush of warm air penetrated the thin window, washing across my shoulders. Then, a whisper, cloaked by the hissing wind, said, “Breathe.”

       
I opened my eyes and gasped as if I had only been holding my breath, and lay awake all night, trembling so violently I shook the bed. The cleaning woman found me the next morning and shooed me away, threatening to call the police. I grabbed my stool by the bedside table and hobbled out of sight, looking for a place to sit and rest, collect myself, decide what to do. Since, in all this time, wandering had brought me no closer to him, I thought I might do better sitting still.

       
This corner is a likely place to wait: open, busy in the daytime, but with enough space that I will be easy to spot if anyone is looking. I may be sitting here a very long time. I might even be wrong—it would not be the first time. But I have learned to wait much longer with far less incentive. Only one thing is certain: when he comes, I will pin him down, anchoring him to the earth, my arms and legs wrapped tight around him so he can never squirm away again.