Jonathan Lethem: The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye

“ The witch’s house . You want breakfast, right? Why not just go in and get some? Why not find out what she’s doing in there?”

The idea terrified me instantly. Me, a little boy, barging into the house of that beautiful, unapproachable woman. But Peter didn’t know about the emotional content of Hell. I’d kept that from him. “It’s an idea,” I conceded. “Uh, yeah. It’s an idea.”

“It could be the key to the whole thing, Dad. Who knows. You’ve got to find out.”

“The purloined letter,” I said. “Something so obvious, just sitting right out there in plain sight, but nobody notices…” I was drifting off into talking to myself again. I couldn’t stay focused on Peter. I was thinking about Maureen and her friend, and my thoughts were very, very murky.

“Will you try?” said Peter. “Will you check it out?”

“I might,” I snapped, suddenly angry. It was as though he were taunting me. But of course he didn’t know. I hadn’t said anything.

He pretended he hadn’t heard the tension in my voice, and went on, bright-eyed. “It could be nothing, really. Just another stupid dead end. Or the door is locked or something…”

“No, no,” I said, wanting to reassure him now. “It’s a good idea, Pete. An inspiration…”

We drifted off into a mutually embarrassed silence. “Is Uncle Frank a lot like my grandfather?” asked Peter suddenly.

“Well, no. Not really. Why?”

“I dunno. He just seems so different from you. It’s hard for me to see how you might be related. I can’t imagine what your dad was like.”

“Different how?”

“Oh, you know, Dad. You’re so serious. Uncle Frank seems like he’s almost younger than you.”

“Younger?”

“He’s just sillier, that’s all. He says weird things. I can’t really explain, but it’s like he’s some kind of cartoon character, or somebody you’d tell me about in a story. He reminds me of somebody from Hell, like the robot maker, or—”

That’s where Peter stopped, because I hit him.

Hit him hard. Knocked him out of his chair and onto the floor.

My anger had been spiraling while he spoke. I thought about Frank out covering Maureen’s ass, the two of them leaving the kid alone so she could squeeze in a quick lay, and that got me thinking about all the manipulative, unpleasant things Frank had done over the years. And now the kid was falling for it, falling for the image of the wacky, irresponsible, cartoon-character uncle who picked you up at school in the middle of the day, who seemed so much more charismatic than boring old Dad.

I remembered falling for it myself, and I wondered if my father ever felt anything like the jealousy I felt now.

Peter sat on the floor, whimpering. I held my hand up to my face and looked at it, astonished. Then I walked out of the room. I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t think of what to say.

Besides, I was going to Hell.

I was glad. It was where I belonged.

I sat at the table a long time, watching the horse quiver and twitch as the flies crawled over his lips, watching the other children giggle and whisper and play with their silverware, listening to the sound of insects in the woods beyond the hedge, smelling the smoke that trailed out of the witch’s chimney, quietly seething. I don’t think I ever hated my Hell as badly as I did now. Now that my other life, my real life, had become a Hell too.

Eventually I got out of my seat. But I couldn’t bring myself to run for the hedge to the north, or in any direction, for that matter. I stood on the grass beside my chair, paralyzed by Peter’s suggestion. After a minute or so I took a first, tentative step across the grass, toward the witch’s hut. It seemed like a mile to the cobblestone steps at the door. I tried the handle; it turned easily. The room was dark. I stepped inside.

The Happy Man was turned away from me, facing the table, his pants down around his ankles, his pale, hairy buttocks squeezed together. Splayed out on the table, her bare legs in the air, was the witch. The Happy Man had one hand over her mouth, the other on her breasts.

“Oh, shit,” he said when he heard me come in. He stopped thrusting and hurriedly pulled up his pants. “What are you doing in here?” He turned away, left the witch scrambling to cover herself on the table. Despite my astonishment at finding Eagery in the hut, I managed to ogle her for a moment. She was beautiful.

“Breakfast,” I got out. “I wanted breakfast.”

“Oh, yeah?” The Happy Man didn’t sound playful. He was advancing on me fast. I tried to turn and leave, but he grabbed me and pinned me against the wall. “Breakfast is served,” he said. He lifted me by my belt and took me to the stove. I could feel its heat as I dangled there. He opened the door with his free hand. Inside there was a pie baking; it smelled wonderful. The breakfast we’d always hoped for. Eagery dropped me onto the open door.

My hands and knees immediately burned. I heard myself pleading, but The Happy Man didn’t pay any attention; he began pushing the door closed, wedging me into the hot oven with the pie, battering at my dangling arms and legs until I pulled them in, then slamming the door closed and leaning on it with his full weight.

I fell into the pie, and burning sugar stuck to my back. I think I screamed. Eagery kicked at the oven, jolting it off the floor, until I was silent. Eventually I died.

Died back into my own life, of course. Peter was right. He’d discovered a shortcut.

Lucky me.

I came back in the apartment this time, sitting alone in the living room, watching television. That’s how I spend a lot of my zombie hours, according to Maureen. It was midday, and I suspected I hadn’t been away long at all. I checked my watch. Sure enough, less than twenty-four hours had passed. It was the second day of the weekend; my shortest stay in Hell ever, by several days.

I turned off the television and went into the kitchen to make myself some coffee. The house was empty. The day was pretty bright, and I suspected they’d gone out for a picnic or something up at the park. I had a few hours alone with my thoughts.

Still, it wasn’t until I heard their car in the driveway that I had my big idea.

I had the tube on again. That was part of it. It had something to do with not wanting to face them, too. Not knowing what to say to Maureen, or Peter. When I heard the car pull up I felt my tongue go numb in my mouth.

By the time Maureen got her key in the door it was a fully hatched plan. I stared at the television as they came in, keeping my breath steady, trying not to meet their eyes. There was a moment of silence as Maureen checked me out and determined that I was still away, in Hell.

Then the conversation picked up again, like I wasn’t even there.

“—what’s he watching?”

“That horrible cop thing. Peter, for God’s sake, turn it down. I don’t want to listen to that. Or change the channel—” To Frank: “He won’t notice. If he doesn’t like it, he’ll just get up and go away. But he never does. I’ve seen him sit through hours and hours of Peter’s horror things…”

I would have enjoyed proving her wrong, but I didn’t want to risk anything that would blow my cover. So I sat there while Peter flipped the dial, settling eventually on the news.

The lead story was a minor quake in L.A., and like all good Californians they took the bait, crowded around me on the couch for a look at the damage: a couple of tilted cars on a patch of split pavement, a grandmother facedown on her lawn, pet dog sniffing at her displaced wig. Maureen and Frank sat to my left, and Peter pushed up close to me at my right. It was our first physical contact in a long time — unless you counted the punch.