Voice of Our Shadow (21 page)

“India, when I was in New York, I was with someone.”

“I kind of thought so by the way you’ve acted since you got back. Somebody old or somebody new?”

“Somebody new.”

“Uh oh, they’re the most dangerous kind, aren’t they? Before you go on, tell me her name.”

“Karen. Why?”

“Karen Why. Is she Chinese?”

Despite the heaviness of the moment, I cracked up. I shook my head and kept laughing. Then our cake came, and we compared whose was better and who’d gotten gypped with a smaller piece.

“So go on with Karen, Joe. She’s not Chinese and she’s new.”

“Why did you want to know her name?”

“Because I like to know the name of the enemy before I charge.”

I told her about it generally, and India didn’t say a word until I’d finished.

“And you slept with her?”

“No, not yet.”

“Spiritual.” She took a fork and squashed half her cake down flat on her plate.

She wouldn’t look at me when she spoke again. She kept attacking the cake. “Why did you come back?”

“Because you’re my friend and because a lot of this is my fault.”

“Any love in there, Joey?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, did any of your choosing to come back have to do with loving me?”

Her head was bent, and I saw the careful, exact part in her hair.

“Of course there was love, India. I’m not …”

She looked up. “You’re not
what
?”

“I’m not a good enough person to have returned if I didn’t love you. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, I suppose. What are my chances against her?”

I closed my eyes and rubbed my face with my hands. When I took them away, I looked at her. She had the most astounded look on her face. She was gaping over my shoulder, and both hands were on the table, trembling. I turned around to see what was so amazing. Paul Tate, in his beautiful black overcoat, was making his way through the café to our table.

“Hello,
Kinder
, can I sit down?” He slid in next to his wife and kissed her hand. Then he reached over the table and touched me gently on my cheek. His fingers were warm as toast.

“It’s been a long time since I was in here. Right before you went to Frankfurt, Joey.” He looked around fondly.

It was Paul. It was Paul Tate. He was dead. He was sitting across the table from me, and he was dead.

” ‘Men, you may wonder why I’ve gathered you all here today …’ No, I won’t be dumb now.”

“Paul?” India’s voice was the chiming of a small clock in a room miles away.

“Let me say what I have to say, love, and you’ll understand everything.” He smoothed his hair back with one brisk gesture. “You were right, by the way, India. Right all along. When I died I didn’t know if it was because of my heart or because of what you two did to it. It doesn’t matter. It’s over. Now all of my stuff is done, too. All of the Boy, all of the birds and the white Mattys … Done. You two betrayed me once and that’s unforgivable, but it was
because
you loved each other. Finally I’m convinced of that. I see it’s true now.”

Despite his presence, India and I snuck glances across the table to see how we were reacting to
that
. Especially in light of what we’d just been saying.

“I loved India and could
not
believe she’d done it. You see, Joe, she really is a true person, no matter how it looks now. You remember that. When she loves you, it’s all yours. When I realized what had happened, I wanted to kill you both. Big irony — I died instead. Death wasn’t what I thought it would be; I was given the chance to come back and get you guys, and I took it. Brother, did I take it! It was fun at first too, seeing you little bastards screech and run around, really scared. It was. Then, Joe, you kept protecting her. Sticking your neck out so far it should have been cut off ten times. You did everything right and loving, and after a while and a lot of pain, it struck home how much you loved her. You didn’t have to come back from New York, but you did. The way you protected her from the dog the other night … It showed me you loved her with everything you’ve got, and I was amazed. You passed the test, if you can call it that, with flying colors, Joey. You convinced even me. So no more Boy. No more of the dead, Goodbye.”

He got up, buttoned his overcoat to the neck, and, with a quick wink for both of us, walked out of our lives.

One of the famous Lennox family stories goes like this: Right after my father’s mother died, my mother made us all go on a picnic to Bear Mountain. She wanted to keep my father as busy as possible, and picnics were a favorite of his. Ross didn’t want to go at the last minute, but after a slap and some whispered oaths from the boss, he behaved himself and ended up eating more fried chicken and potato salad than anyone else. When we were done, my father and I went for a walk. I was terribly worried about him and kept thinking of the right thing to say to ease his pain. I was five and there weren’t many things I knew how
to
say, much less well, so when it came I was excited and proud that I had thought it up all by myself.

We sat down on a couple of tree stumps, and I took his hand in mine. Did I have something to tell him!

“Daddy? You know you shouldn’t be so sad that Grandma’s dead. You know why? Because she’s with our Big Father now, the one who takes care of
evvveryone
. You know who that is, Daddy? He lives up in the sky and his name is D-O-G.”

In the days that followed our meeting with Paul, I wondered where he was. If he’d told the truth, where did people go after they died? I now knew one thing for sure — there were choices on that other side of life; things were far more complex there than anyone could imagine. Never once when he was sitting with us had I thought to ask him about it, but afterward I realized he probably wouldn’t have said anyway. I was sure of that. It was Paul’s way.

D-O-G. I was sorry I’d never had the chance to tell him that story.

“Where’s Paul’s pen?”

She stood in the door of my apartment in a purple rage.

“Do you want to come in?”

“You took it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it, you little thief. Where is it?”

“It’s on my desk.”

“Well, go get it.”

“All right, India. Take it easy.”

“I don’t want to take it easy. I want that pen.”

She followed me in. I felt stupid and guilty. Ten-year-old guilt. My head bulged with conflicting ideas and emotions. Paul was gone, but exactly what did that mean? I could go now; I had done my duty to India. When was anything ever that simple? I hadn’t answered her question about whether or not she had a “chance” against Karen. If Paul had remained a factor in our lives, I wouldn’t have had to answer that question for a long time. Now I did.

“Give me that! Why’d you steal it, anyway?” She shoved it into her pocket and patted it a couple of times to make sure it was there.

“I guess because it was Paul’s. I took it right after he died, before anything started to happen, if it makes any difference.”

“You could have asked, you know.”

“You’re right — I could have asked. Do you want to sit down or anything?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I like you very much today. What are you planning to do now? What’s on your agenda? You could have called me, you know.”

“India, back off, huh. Slow down.”

Karen in New York; a fifty-fifty chance I could win her back if I left immediately. India in Vienna; free, alone, angry. Angry because she had betrayed the true love of her life for me. Angry because she thought I had come back to her for all the best reasons in the world, only to find at the worst possible time I’d done it out of ninety percent duty and only ten percent love. Angry because her betrayal had caused death and pain and fear and finally, in the end, a future that promised little more than permanent guilt and self-hatred.

Looking at her, I knew all of that and, in an incredible instant of clarity, decided that no matter what happened I would stay with India as long as she needed me. A montage of Karen in bed, at the altar, raising and loving
his
children, laughing forever at his jokes, came and went, and I told myself I had to believe it didn’t matter anymore. India needed me, and the rest of my life would be utterly false and selfish — inexcusable — if I failed her now.

It wasn’t martyrdom or altruism or anything as lovely as all that. I would simply be doing what was right for the third or fourth time in my life, and that was good. I realized how naive and unrealistic people are to think you can be both right and happy.

If it happens that way, you are truly one of the blessed. Right, however, should win if you have to choose. A great deal has happened since those thoughts paraded grandly through my head, but I still believe that’s true. It is one of the few things I still believe at all.

“Joe, since you’ll probably be leaving soon, I want to tell you something. I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time, but I haven’t. I think you should know, though, because it’s important, and no matter what happens with us, I still love you enough to want to help.”

“India, can I say something first? I think it might have some bearing —”

“No, not until I’ve finished. You know me. Whatever you say may take the wind out of my sails, and I’m mad enough at you to let it rip, so just let me, okay?”

“Okay.” I tried to smile, but she frowned and shook her head. No smiles allowed. I sat back to let her blow her top, knowing I had the ace up my sleeve the whole time. Was she going to be surprised!

“This pen is part of it. I know why you wanted it. Because it was Paul’s, and you wanted it to remind you of Paul’s magic. Right? I understand. You’re like that, Joe. You want part of everyone’s magic, but you’re too damned wimpy at heart to reach it the hard way, so you snitch Paul’s pen, make love to me —”

“India, for godsake!”

“Shut up. You make love to me … You even steal your brother’s life, put it down on paper, and make it into a million-dollar story. Okay, not a million dollars, but enough to keep you sitting pretty for the rest of your life. True? You’re talented, Joe, no one is arguing that, but have you ever thought maybe your greatest talent is stealing other people’s magic and using it for yourself? Here, I want to read you something.”

I couldn’t believe what she was saying. Stunned and hurt more than I’d ever been in my life, I watched as she pulled a slip of paper out of her back pocket.

“It’s from the novelist Evan Connell. You know him? Listen a minute. ‘Originals attract us for another reason, which goes all the way back to prehistoric belief in magical properties. If we own something original, whether it’s a skull or a lock of hair or an autograph or a drawing, we think maybe we acquire a little of the strength or substance of whoever it belonged to or whoever made it.’ “

She threw the paper on the coffee table and pointed a finger at me. “It’s you in a nutshell, Joe, and you know it down deep inside. I’ve been trying like hell to figure it out. The only word I can think of is parasite. Not a bad parasite, but one just the same. The two people you’ve truly loved and admired in your life — Ross and Paul — so overwhelmed you with whatever kind of magic they had that you knew you had to have some of it. So you stole your brother’s story after he was dead, and it worked! When Paul arrived, you stole his wife, you stole his
pen
… Do you get what I mean, Joseph? Jesus, why am I calling you Joseph? You know the only reason why you’ll stay with me? Because I might still have some of his magic left, and you can’t bear to be alone in the world without any. Or maybe you’ll leave because your Karen has a fresh supply and she’ll keep your tank filled. It’s a bad way to put it, Joe, but you get exactly what I mean. I’m sorry to stab you with all this at one time, but it’s the truth. That’s all. I’ve had my say. Do you want to talk now?”

“No. I think you had better go.”

“All right. Think about it. Think about it a lot. Before you come and punch me in the nose, tear it apart and put it back together again. I’ll be at home.”

She got up and left without another word.

I sat in the chair for the rest of the afternoon. I looked at the floor and out the window. How dare she! What hideous thing had I done to her to deserve those words? I’d simply been honest, and she’d returned the favor by cutting me in half with a dull razor blade. What if I had been totally honest with her? Told her I truly loved someone else but was going to stay with her because it was my duty rather than my desire. That was the first, scorched-ego part of the afternoon’s thoughts. The part where I very much wanted to punch her in the nose for having the nerve to tell me …

The truth? Had I been searching for that truth ever since the death of my brother, or running away from it as hard as I could? I picked up the paper with the Connell quote and read and reread it.

The sun crossed the sky, and the shadows through the Venetian blinds followed it. I would allow her one thing — I had taken advantage of Ross’s death, sure, but wasn’t that what a writer was supposed to do? Cash in on his life’s experience and try to make some sense of it on paper? How could she fault me for that? Would she have condemned me if the story hadn’t happened in the right place at the right time? What if it had been an exercise for a creative-writing class in college and nothing more? Would that have been okay in her eyes?

She was jealous. Yes, that was it! All my fluke money and success from “Wooden Pajamas,” being able to pull her away from Paul and then hinting I didn’t want her after the danger had passed. She was a loser and I was a winner and … Hard as I tried for a couple of minutes, I couldn’t dress her in that outfit either. She wasn’t the jealous type and certainly wouldn’t wither up and blow away if I walked out of her life. There was a toughness in her that could weather all kinds of storms, and I wasn’t egotistical enough to think my departure would bring the curtain down on her life. Pain and guilt, yes, but no final curtain.

Part Two in the revelations on a winter afternoon of one Joseph Lennox, writer and parasite.

When it grew dark outside, I walked without thinking into the kitchen and opened a can of soup. I have no memory from that point on, until I realized I’d just washed my dinner dishes. I zombied back to my thinking chair and sat down for the next installment.