The Invention of Everything Else (10 page)

The quality Walter most admired in Azor was that he had the ability to turn junk into treasure with a roll of tape or a hammer. Azor was a tinkerer of the first degree. And so the slightly older, slightly toadish boy with the odd name endeared himself to Walter.

Nearly every Sunday, Walter and Azor—up until two years ago, that is—used to stroll New York City together. Azor would drag a low, wooden cart made from a scrap pallet and as they walked he would go trash picking. Digging for supplies through piles of debris in abandoned buildings, ash cans, junkyards, trash heaps, the alleyways snaking through the wealthiest of neighborhoods, flooded riverbanks, basements, garbage pails, and construction sites. Like an archeologist of a sort. And Walter would accompany him, happy to have someone to just walk with. Walter would talk and Azor would listen. They'd arrive home smelling of rotten fish or some other stinking sidewalk juice that New York City stews in seasonally.

"Last night I had a dream about an apple orchard, and in the orchard there was a man, but he wasn't much of a man, just a torso and a head." Walter would tell Azor his dreams or he would tell him about a young woman named Freddie, or later, when they got older, Walter would remind Azor of some detail from when they were young, something about the neighborhood, where they'd been standing when they had seen a barge carrying zoo animals up the river or, perhaps, what the three of them had done on Freddie's twentieth birthday. Walter had been careful to always include Azor, Azor who, unlike Walter, never found the gumption to court or marry.

But after forty-five years of constant friendship, Azor Carter disappeared quite entirely into thin air, two years ago, as though he slipped through a crack, down a sewer grating. He was gone without a trace. One Sunday he was there and then the next Sunday he was gone. When Azor failed to show up, Walter went by Azor's house. He kept a spare key. There was nothing unusual about the apartment. The buckets of hardware and spare parts were all in place. Azor's halfbirthed projects dotted the workbench. Everything was still there save one item: a stack of
Popular Mechanics
magazines that Azor had been faithfully archiving since 1902, the very first year of its publication. They, along with Azor, were gone.

Walter checked the hospitals and the prisons. He asked everyone who'd known Azor, anyone with a familiar face. No one had seen him. Walter climbed into cellars, stared down through sewer gratings looking for his friend, thinking, perhaps, that he might have slipped, he might have gotten trapped going after a runaway hubcap or a bit of
screen, but after two months of searching Walter ran out of places to even look. With no leads in sight, he finally had to give up. Exhaling loudly, he admitted to Louisa, "Well, Azor, it seems, has simply disappeared."

Walter doesn't say anything for a few steps. The snow is falling thicker and thicker. "He's going to be on the radio. Azor is going to be on the radio and he wants us to be there."

"What?"

"Big Chief Ezra called him at the last minute to fill in. It seems the president of the Syracuse Large Game and Rifle Club had to cancel on account of the weather, and Big Chief Ezra asked Azor. Tonight. He said he wants us to be there."

"No. I mean 'What?' as in 'What else?' Where's he been for two blessed years?"

"He didn't say," Walter answers, and Louisa detects tin flecks of annoyance in her father's voice—not toward Azor, but toward Louisa for asking. "He didn't say."

"Well, why is he going to be on the radio? What's he going to talk about?"

Walter takes Louisa's arm to staunch her questions. "I don't know," he says, protecting Azor as one might a wayward yet much admired older brother, as someone only Walter was allowed to be angry with. Walter didn't know where Azor had been, and it seemed, at least for tonight, that he didn't care. He was just happy to have him back.

Louisa surprises herself. She feels the smallest dot of jealousy. Azor had always been Walter's best friend, but since he'd been gone she'd taken on the role and done, she thought, a much better job. Walter, without Azor around, maintained a tighter hold on reality. It wasn't that she didn't want Azor to be back; she just thought she deserved some recognition for having never disappeared.

They head east toward Broadway. As they turn the corner, a snowflake hits Louisa in the eye, and for a moment she thinks she can see its crystal structure. It balances on her eyelashes, suspended just a hair too close to focus on. She shrugs and the snow falls away from her shoulders, her head, her eyelashes. But still, like a photo flash the snowflake's intricate lacework is enlarged, a blue refraction in her brain that blocks out parts of the sidewalk and street before her, so that all she sees for just a moment is the peripheral. In that one moment she thinks once again of Arthur Vaughn, the strange man from the subway. She and Walter walk on together in silence for a while.

"Pop, do you remember some kid I went to school with named Arthur Vaughn?"

"Arthur Vaughn?" he asks, taking only a moment to consider. "There was once a family of Vaughns on Fifty-second, but that was a while back, and I don't remember any of them being in your class. Maybe."

"That's weird."

"Why?"

"Cause I met him today. He says he remembers me. He even remembered that day I brought one of the birds to school. Marlene."

"Marlene. That's right." Walter smiles. "Well, then, I guess there must have been an Arthur Vaughn in your class," he says as if solving the riddle or perhaps not wanting anything to distract his attention from Azor's return. He tugs Louisa's arm with some urgency. "I don't want to be late," he says. "Azor told me not to be late. He says tonight is going to be one of the most important moments in United States history. He said it'll be a night they'll discuss for centuries to come. He wants us to be there."

Azor still has the ability to make Walter act like a six-year-old younger brother. Gullible, hopeful, foolish.

"Azor?" Louisa asks. Azor has never struck her as a man who could change American history. Azor has to be told to change his undershirt. He, like Walter, is a dreamer. Once he was hit by a taxicab after stepping directly out into Fifth Avenue traffic without looking. At the hospital after the accident Walter scolded Azor for not paying attention. "You're going to get killed one of these days."

"I don't think so," Azor had said, not looking at Walter. A nurse was bandaging the slight scratch on Azor's ear. "Did you see that taxicab? It fared a lot worse than I did in our collision." Azor put on his coat and thanked the nurse. "Walter," he said, turning at the door to explain his position. "Thought can be a force field" Azor had bad ideas like that one in spades.

Big Chief Ezra is a local broadcaster who manages to cobble together a weekly radio show with supposedly scientific leanings. Past broadcasts have explored topics such as plastics and polymers, or where the zebra gets his stripes, or the science behind winning big at the horse
races. Louisa remembers one Big Chief Ezra program in particular. It was from years ago, but the reason she remembers it is that it was recorded on location, down in the sewer system where they were investigating the allegations of a number of people who claimed to have spotted a half-man/half-fish disappearing into the manholes of Manhattan somewhere around Fourteenth Street. At the time she thought radio could go anywhere, could even go inside her own head, and she imagined a program detailing the curls of her brain, Big Chief Ezra leading his crew inside her ear with his reporter's microphone.

The older she got, the more she found Big Chief Ezra's style hokey. In recent years Louisa rarely tuned in, as his program was aired opposite the
Spark Gap
story hour. He was, she felt, more of a salesman than a trusted radio engineer or scientist.

The street is blue and cold. As they approach the theater Walter starts to shake his head. "Azor," he says, though Azor is nowhere in sight. Walter hides his chin in his collar again and so Louisa can't tell what he's thinking. "I knew he wasn't dead," Walter says quietly, quickly, and in direct opposition to what Louisa has been saying ever since the first day Azor disappeared.

Outside the small theater a sandwich board reads,
RECORDING LIVE TONIGHT
!

Walter drops Louisa's arm and approaches the ticket window. "Two, please," he says to a box-office attendant who is so tall his head is not visible to Louisa as it is blocked by the arch of the window. "I believe
Azor Carter
left some passes for us. We are
Walter and Louisa Dewell
" He says it just like that, pride bursting the names at their very edges.

The box-office attendant makes a show of looking about the small room for their tickets. "I'm sorry," he finally replies. "No tickets were left."

"Impossible," Louisa tells him.

"Impossible perhaps, but true. If you'd like you can still
purchase
tickets to tonight's recording."

"How much?" Walter asks, deflated but unsurprised by Azor's forgetfulness. He reaches for his wallet.

"One dollar for two," the attendant says in a very deep voice. A price far too dear for Big Chief Ezra. Walter surrenders.

"We didn't miss anything, did we?"

"Show's just starting, folks."

Walter signals with his head for Louisa to come. Before following him she scans the street. She looks straight up, and for as far as she can see, snowflakes are falling from out of the blackness. She gives one last scowl to the box-office attendant on her way in.

The theater door swings open onto a narrow hallway lined with wall sconces whose electric bulbs burn behind etched glass shades. Louisa follows Walter down the dark hallway, advancing toward the rumble and chatter of voices. The skin of her neck rises like the bristles of a brush. She's never been to a live radio performance before. The voices coming from up ahead are fluid. Louisa can't make out the words, only that there are words being said in a slow stream that rises and falls like a minister bringing a noisy congregation to order. The end of the hallway is blocked by a blue velvet curtain, but as Walter approaches he clasps the curtain and draws enough of it aside for the two of them to slip inside the gathering.

It is a tiny, dark theater. The room has been roughly carved out, as if it were a grotto, casting dark shadows and lending a cobwebby feel to the proceedings. It is a back theater, a theater behind the regular theater, an afterthought of a room with seating for perhaps only fifty people. A number of overhead bulbs hang down into the audience like the spindly roots of plants, dangling into the proceedings. Cluttered and neglected, perhaps the room was used once for storage. The chairs are a mishmash of heavy wooden clodhoppers, some with brusquely carved backs, while other rows are made up of a number of folding theater seats in runs of three or four chairs, connected by the armrests. Tiny street-level windows crown the very top of the back wall. Behind one, a lone pair of legs moves swiftly through the snow. An usher quickly helps Louisa and Walter find seats. The room is chilly and so they keep their coats on. The wool jackets balloon out around them as they sit. They look like children.

"Welcome! Welcome, fellow scientists, ladies, and the like. Tonight's broadcast is coming to you live from the Little Lux Theater just off Broadway, here on the magical island of Manhattan." Up on stage the host is a glossy showman with a flair for proper enunciation. He is handsome and his suit is so sharply starched it seems to have corners, just like his words. He is neither big nor—most disappointing to Louisa—a chief. Rather, Big Chief Ezra has short blond hair that he wears cropped close to his head. His skin shines. He has a tight, muscular face with two deep dimples that flash at each smile. He swings
his arms out in front of him, clasping his hands casually as he speaks. "We're going to get started here in just a moment, as soon as my guest gets settled. Now, how many of you have ever been on radio before?" he asks the audience.

Not a peep is raised from the crowd, though the room is nearly full.

"Well, there's nothing to it. Just stay in your seats, laugh when something tickles you, and applaud when you feel like it. But please try to stay in your seats because we will be broadcasting this interview live on WK45D on the FM dial."

The stage is mostly taken over by a large and sloppy console. There are all manner of wires, cords, blinking lights, headphones, buttons, and three microphones posing like awkward storks off to the side in front of three high stools. The host takes his place on top of one of the stools as he is joined on stage by a young woman, an escort who is leading a befuddled but gracious and dapper-looking Azor to his seat.

Walter grips the chair ahead of him. He nudges Lou in her ribs. "Azor!" he whispers. "That's Azor," he says as if Louisa couldn't see the small, dark-haired fellow dressed rather formally in business attire, a man she has known since the day she was born. Azor moves very slowly, shuffling while he gently maneuvers himself up onto one of the high stools. The young woman holds up her hands as though blocking him, protecting him with her overly cautious gestures as if he were a feeble old man. Still he smiles as he shuffles, pausing to look out at the audience and wave. He is a hollow-chested sort with thinning hair and a bright face. "Azor," Walter says again quietly.

Once Azor has settled himself, placing the headphones over his ears, the young woman vanishes behind a curtain and a stage manager begins to give Azor and the host a countdown. "Broadcasting live in five, four, three." He silently finishes the countdown by holding up two fingers, then one finger, which turns into a pointer, signaling the host to start. A square red sign above the stage is illuminated. It reads
ON AIR
and Louisa swallows hard.

"Hiyahiyahiyahiyahiyahiyahi! Hello and welcome to
Big Chief Ezra's Science Discoveries!
" the host says.

Louisa stares at Big Chief Ezra. It is strange to attach a face to the voice she knows well. She fidgets a bit and then grabs tightly on to her father's arm, squeezing him to dispel some of her own excitement.