Tide King (45 page)

“For our thirtieth wedding anniversary, we took a tour of Europe.” Johnson stared at the ceiling.

“Of course—to see all the cathedrals in Italy you told me about. And I would have wanted to see where you fought, in Algeria, Cisterna, Normandy. Where you died in Germany.”

“And I would have wanted to see you in all those places,” he said. In different dresses, at different ages, the velvety paper of her cheeks as a young woman, the skin stretching firmer and then looser across her face, her long hair, dark chestnut, lined with strands of grey, grey strands knitting spider webs in her hair, lines drawn with a delicate hand into the corners of her lips, her eyes, the first wrinkles on her hands. These changes would be subtle at first, but he would not have missed them, would have cherished each, considered them presents, anniversaries all their own.

“Don't cry, Calvin.” She took his hand. “You're supposed to comfort me.”

“Tell me you'll take it,” he said, wiping his eyes. “The herb. We can do everything we never got to do. We'll have all the time in the world.”

“You should give it to Palmer.” She played with his fingers, her words more slurred than before. “I'm sure there are a lot of people who want to live forever. As long as everyone else they love lives forever. But then, if everyone has eternal life, then the world would end, I suppose. But until that happens, you two could stand to make a lot of money.”

“Would you like me to leave?” He sat up, angered. “I feel like you're making fun of me. I don't want to trouble you any more.”

“No. Calvin—I could die in your arms.” She moved toward him weakly, her fingers trailing along his back. “I just don't know if I can live another life.”

“That's just the pain talking.” He shook his head. “If the pain went away, if the sun came out, when you wake up tomorrow, you'll think differently about it.”

“Maybe,” she answered. She sighed, staring off to a point. “There's nothing to be afraid of, right? Why would living be more frightening than dying?”

He did not answer. She did not ask, but he did not have to explain the logistics of things. That, once she took the herb, they would disappear. That they would live among people but not with them. That, even though she was given new life, she could never see her sons, her husband, again. That she would be a ghost alive. That they would stand at the edge of the world, where souls broke the plane, births, deaths, pressing their fingers against the glass. That it would kill one dead, even though one could not die.

“Tomorrow, we'll do it,” he said. “But today, let's be together here.”

“I'll need to say goodbye to my sons. And then what? I suppose you are experienced in the faking of one's death?”

“Shh.” He rolled over, took her in his arms. “Let's not talk about it now.”

“But when?” she asked, and he kissed her, as firmly as she would allow. She opened her lips to him, her mouth dry, sour with chemicals. He understood, in some way, that Kate was part of the mutation, and that was how it would be left. That if he had survived the war without Stanley's help, they would not have met, and that the mutation, his death in Germany, set them in motion. To have her, he knew, was to be cursed, and it was this acceptance that would get him through this life long after hers had ended. Because hers would end; he loved her too much to have it any other way.

When her body slackened beneath him, when her lids were heavy and wet with pain and her lips quivered, he stood up and retrieved the herb, putting it back in his pocket.

“I love you.” He touched her face, hoped that whatever memories in her circuitry would claim him, that they would fire their way into her next life, whatever feelings in her heart pulsed in the breezes, the rays of sun, the leaves, when her body had crumbled to dirt.

“Are you leaving?” she murmured. “When will you be back?”

“Soon.” He kissed her head and went to the door. “I'm going to send Marjorie in, and I'm going to take a walk. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she answered. “Please hurry.”

She waved a little, and he wondered if she knew he would not be back. Her eyes closed; her mouth opened involuntarily. He closed the door. In the hallway, Marjorie stood with another tray, and the smell of the hot, salty canned soup cut into his stomach.

Outside, life went on as always. People brushed by him, ignored him. When he took the cab back to the museum, where Heidi weaved through the crowd out front, he swam in the tide of life like blood through veins, and he was almost invisible. When he grabbed her by the shoulders, knocking from her grip the paper tote bag from the gift shop with a t-shirt, and pulled her to him, crying into her neck, his body heaving, people stopped for a second. But then, they moved on, swallowing them up in the crowd before spitting them out.

Heidi wanted to go to Coney Island to see his past life there. He agreed, thinking it would take his mind off things. They sat in the subway car for a long time, riding through the bowels of the city before they emerged, and late-evening Brooklyn welcomed them, the beach. She studied him from the corner of her eye as he clenched and unclenched his fists, his boots pressed against the floor of the car. He had cried like a baby in the middle of New York, almost pulling her down to the sidewalk as he clung to her. He held onto to her so tightly she thought he would break her ribs. No one had ever touched her like that, needed her like that. Not even her own father, who preferred to drown in the past of his mind, mostly.

Finally, he sat up straight, rubbing his hands on his jeans, and looked at her.

“What did you get?” he asked. She pulled it out almost apologetically, a sky blue-colored shirt with a whale on it. Why she had been looking at the origins of humanity and gems and minerals and perusing the gift shop while he visited Kate, while his heart was ripped out, she didn't know. She was stupid and vile, and he if had any sense, he would leave her in Coney Island to become homeless.

Instead, he ran his hand along the fabric, held it to his face and smelled its newness. “You're going to look great in this. I can imagine you going to college wearing this shirt.”

She wanted to say that she wasn't going to college, that she would follow him to the ends of the earth for the promise of his touch, his tears, his faith in her.

Instead, she said, “Thanks.”

It was chilly when they got off at the end of the line, and she pulled it over her other tee-shirt as they walked down Surf Avenue. In the distance, high-rise projects stood before the sea. The sidewalks were a decoupage of cigarette butts, dirty wrappers and napkins, an occasional syringe. The smell of hot dogs and beer wove through the air and stabbed at her stomach. The lights of the Cyclone and Wonder Wheel seemed to leer at them in the salty, windy night. Everything was intoxicating, slightly lurid, like she imagined a porn film. She had never been anywhere dangerous, anywhere alone. Without her asking, Johnson slid his arm over her shoulders.

“Did she take it, then?” She looked ahead, did not turn to him when he touched her, too afraid at what she would do. What he would do.

“No,” he answered.

“Is she…will she…”

“She will.”

“I'm so sorry, Calvin. I can't imagine…what you are feeling.”

“You want to ride the Cyclone?” He grabbed her elbow.

“Now?” She stopped and laughed incredulously. “Are you sure?”

“Looks fun.” He felt in his pockets, pulling out the herb, a few dollars, a lighter. Heidi took the baggie with the herb from his hand and held it up.

“How much did my father give you of this?” She rolled the pieces through the plastic between her fingers.

“I don't remember.” He flattened the bills against his jacket. “How much is a rollercoaster ride these days? Thirty dollars?”

They climbed in the car and pulled the bar down. She could smell the ocean salt, the taffy. Heidi wove her left hand into his right and squeezed.

“Are you okay?” she asked. She wanted big, important words to comfort him, important insights, but what tumbled out of her mouth was junior varsity, so high school.

“Not really.” He stared off in front of him. She wondered if he was out in the cosmos somewhere, waiting to catch Kate before she rocketed away from them. “I'd better get used to it, though, huh? I mean, watching you die, too, anyone else I meet.”

“I'm not going to let you.” She leaned forward and caught his eyes. “I love you, Calvin.”

The car jolted to a start and began climbing up the hill. There was nothing else left to do. With her other hand, Heidi tilted the plastic bag with the herb toward her lips. In disbelief, then horror, Johnson watched the dried, crumbled remains begin to tumble into her mouth.

“Jesus—no.” He grabbed the bag from her and shoved it into his opposite jeans pocket. “What are you, crazy?”

But it was too late. Heidi swallowed as the car slid over the top of the hill.

“This is not what I wanted.”

They sat on the beach, Heidi hugging her backpack, Johnson plunging his fist in the damp sand.

“It's what I want,” Heidi said. “Calvin, I love you. I know you don't love me, but it doesn't matter. I don't want you to be alone.”

“You're too young to even know what you're saying.” He was crying now, for Kate, or Heidi, he wasn't sure. Both, maybe. Each cursed, all of them cursed. All of them the luckiest people in the world to have known each other, a day or forever. “Me and Ela—you've got to know how terrible it's been for us. For her, especially. And we didn't even ask for it. And you willingly did it. I don't understand.”

“I love you, Calvin.” Her eyes were wet. He could not tell if it was the sting of the salt air, if she was upset. “Is it that hard to understand? Like you…and Kate.”

“That is
not
the same,” he spat. He grabbed her shoulder as she turned from him, to run away. “Don't go. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It's just…you're a kid. You don't know what you're feeling. When I was your age, I was going to marry this divorcée, Eva Darson. Then, I went into the Army and realized how stupid it was.”

“Don't tell me my feelings are stupid.” She dug her pointy chin into the top of the backpack and squeezed her eyes. “If my feelings are stupid, then all of our feelings are stupid.”

“You don't even know for sure…if it worked.”

“Don't worry.” She pulled Stanley's revolver out of her backpack. “We'll know.”

He grabbed for the gun, falling on her, as it went off. Underneath him, she moaned. He cradled her head in his hand and rolled to the side, running his hand over her shoulders, chest, down her body until he found it, the blood pooling on the top of her foot.

“If it doesn't heal, we just go to the emergency room,” she said, gritting her teeth, throwing the revolver into the surf. They watched the ocean spit it back. “We'll just say we got mugged.”

“You…I can't believe it.” He untied her sneaker and pulled it off. He pushed his finger in the wound and enlarged it with his finger, feeling the tip of the bullet lodged in the bone. In the backpack, he fumbled for the Swiss Army knife, pulling out the tweezers.

“Here.” He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and pressed it against her lips. “Bite down. I don't care if you bite a hole through it. Just don't let go.”

He sat on top of her leg so that it was between his and plunged the tweezers into the hole, holding her foot still with his other hand. The bullet slipped once, twice, through the tweezers until he was able to get a grip, freeing it from the pulp of blood and flesh and bone shards.

“Jesus Christ!” She shouted behind him. “Why the hell did I throw my life away with you? What the hell am I doing? Oh hell, hell, hell!”

“You're not biting my wallet, like you should,” he answered, and she responded by beating his back with her fists. He turned and held up the bullet to her.

“It's out.” He dropped into her palm. “Not everyone gets a souvenir from Coney Island like this. I'm going to get some napkins. Don't move.”

“Can you get me hot dog, too?” She pulled herself to a sitting position. “The pain is making me hungry as shit.”

They ate Nathan's hot dogs and French fries and watched the moon on the water. He wrapped his arm around her and imagined a white sheet lying lightly over Kate's body. He then imagined it in the morgue while her coffee mugs, her comforter, her slippers, her Krasner, lay in waiting, not knowing she had passed away. And then they would be taken from their rooms, discarded or sold, asked to hang on other people's walls, touch other people's lips, and they could not protest, not grieve that her hands, her eyes, would never caress and validate them. Quietly and efficiently, the evidence of her life would be disassembled, except for his memories, other memories that her sons and their wives and her coworkers and friends had, but to which he was not privy. He had only his version of Kate's life, and it would have to do. If she had not loved him like he loved her, she loved him somehow, the way in which she was capable. The same way he would love Heidi.

“I'm sorry, Calvin,” Heidi wept into his shoulder.

“Shh—it just hurts, honey.” He had put the napkins, yellow ones with “Nathan's Hot Dogs” printed in green on them, between her sock and foot and tied the shoe tightly, hoping to stem the bleeding. “Shh. Just try and get some sleep.”

“We can't sleep on the beach.”

“If someone comes, I'll just carry you somewhere.”

“Let's go see Woody Guthrie's house. I want to see where you lived.”

“Okay; that's exactly what we'll do tomorrow.” He pressed his hands around the slippery sneaker, splotches of blood appearing between his fingers. He could feel his heart in his throat. If she did not clot soon, she would slip into unconsciousness, hypothermia. He took the shoe off her good foot and rubbed the foot and her hands.