John Verdon - Shut Your Eyes Tight

Gate of Heaven.

There was only one thing he could do.

He hoped it would be enough.

If it wasn’t, he hoped that perhaps one day Madeleine would be able to forgive him.

There was no course at the academy that adequately prepared you for being shot. Hearing it described by those who’d been through it gave you some idea, and seeing it happen added a certain disturbing dimension, but like most powerful experiences, the idea of it and the reality of it existed in two different worlds.

His plan, such as it was, conceived as it was in a second or two, was, like jumping out a window, simplicity itself. The plan was to launch himself directly at the little man with the gun, who was standing ten or twelve feet from him next to Ashton’s empty chair just inside the open door. The hope was to smash into him with sufficient force to drive him backward through the doorway-the momentum carrying them both over the small landing and down the stone stairs. The price was getting shot, probably more than once.

As Giotto Skard watched the blond girl shrieking “Fuck!” Gurney hurled himself forward with a guttural roar, placing one arm across the heart area of his chest and the other across his forehead. Skard’s.25-caliber pistol would not have great stopping power, except to those two areas, and Gurney was resigned to absorbing elsewhere whatever damage was necessary.

It was crazy, probably suicidal, but he saw no alternative.

The deafening report of the first shot in the small room came almost immediately. With a shocking impact, the bullet shattered Gurney’s right wrist, which was pressed against the heart side of his breastbone.

The second bullet was a spike of fire through his stomach.

The third was the bad one.

N either here nor there .

An explosion of electricity. A blinding green spark, a spark like an exploding star. Screaming. A scream of terror and shock, screaming into a rage. The light is the scream, the scream is the light.

There is nothing. And there is something. At first it’s hard to tell which is which.

A white expanse. Could be nothing. Could be a ceiling.

Somewhere below the white expanse, somewhere above him, a black hook. A small black hook extended like a beckoning finger. A gesture of vast meaning. Too vast for words. Everything now is too vast for words. He can’t think of any words. Not a single one. Forgets what they are. Words. Small bumpy objects. Black plastic insects. Designs. Pieces of something. Alphabet soup.

From the hook hangs a colorless transparent bag. The bag is bulging with colorless transparent liquid. From the bag a transparent tube descends toward him. Like the neoprene gas tube on a model airplane in the park. He can smell the airplane fuel. He watches as the practiced flick of a deft forefinger on the propeller brings the little engine sputtering to life. The volume and pitch of the sound rises, the engine screaming, the scream building to a constant shriek. On the way home from the park, trailing his father, his taciturn father, he falls on a pile of stones. His knee is cut and bloody. The blood trickles down his shin onto his sock. He doesn’t cry. His father looks happy, looks proud of him, later tells his mother about his great achievement, that he’s reached an age where he doesn’t have to cry anymore. It’s a rare thing for his father to look at him with pride. His mother says, “For Godsake, he’s only four, he’s allowed to cry.” His father says nothing.

He sees himself driving his car. A familiar Catskill road. A deer crossing ahead of him, a doe passing into the opposite field. And then her fawn following her, unexpectedly. The thump. Image of the twisted body, mother looking back, waiting in the field.

Danny in the gutter, the red BMW speeding away. The pigeon he was following into the street flying away. He was only four.

Nino Rota music. Poignant, ironic, giddy. Like a sad circus. Sonya Reynolds slowly dancing. The autumn leaves falling.

V oices .

“Can he hear us now?”

“It’s possible. The brain scans yesterday showed significant activity in all the sensory centers.”

“Significant? But…?”

“The patterns remain erratic.”

“Meaning?”

“His brain shows evidence of normal function, but it comes and goes, and there’s some evidence of sensory switching, which may be temporary. It’s a bit like certain drug experiences, hallucinogenics, where sounds are seen and colors are heard.”

“And the prognosis for that is…?”

“Mrs. Gurney, with traumatic brain injuries…”

“I know you don’t know . But what do you think ?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he recovered fully. I’ve seen cases in which a sudden spontaneous remission-”

“And you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t?”

“Your husband was shot in the head. It’s remarkable that he’s alive.”

“Yes. Thank you. I understand. He may get better. Or he may get worse. And you really don’t have a clue, do you?”

“We’re doing as much as we can. When the brain swelling goes down, the situation may be clearer.”

“You’re sure he’s not in pain?”

“He’s not in pain.”

H eaven .

Warmth and coolness bathed him like the inflow and ebbing of a wave or a shifting summer breeze.

Now the coolness had the scent of dewy grass and the warmth carried the subtle scent of tulips in the sun.

The coolness was the coolness of his sheet, and the warmth was the warmth of women’s voices.

Warmth and coolness were combined in the soft pressure of lips against his forehead. A wonderful sweetness and gentleness.

J udgment .

New York County Criminal Court. A crappy courtroom, bleak, colorless. The judge a cartoon of exhaustion, cynicism, and faulty hearing.

“Detective Gurney, the accusations are voluminous. How do you plead?”

He can’t speak, can’t respond, can’t even move.

“Is the defendant present?”

“No!” cries a chorus of voices in unison.

A pigeon rises from the floor, disappears in the smoky air.

He wants, tries, to speak, to prove he is there, but he can’t speak, can’t utter a word or move a finger. He strains to force even a syllable, even a gagging cry from his throat.

The room is on fire. The judge’s robe is smoldering. He announces, wheezing, “The defendant is remanded for an indefinite period to the place where he is, which shall be reduced in size, until such time as the defendant is dead or insane.”

H ell .

He’s standing in a windowless room, a cramped room with stale air and an unmade bed. He looks for the door, but the only door opens into a closet, a closet just inches deep, a closet backed by a concrete wall. He’s having trouble breathing. He bangs on the walls, but the bang isn’t a bang; it’s a flash of fire and smoke. Then, by the side of the bed, he sees a slit in the wall and in the slit a pair of eyes watching him.

Then he’s in the space behind the wall, the space from which the eyes were watching, but the slit is gone and the space is totally dark. He tries to calm himself. Tries to breathe slowly, evenly. He tries to move, but the space is too small. He can’t raise his arms, can’t bend his knees. And he topples sideways, crashing to the floor, but the crash isn’t a crash; it’s a scream. He can’t move the arm beneath his body, can’t raise himself. The space is narrower there, nothing will move. An accelerating terror makes it almost impossible to breathe. If only he could make a sound, speak, cry out.

Far away the coyotes begin to howl.

L ife .