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

Judith had heard of this, of militias going mobile all of a sudden.

“We’ve come for Danny-boy,” said the lieutenant. There was a note of sympathy in her voice, but Judith couldn’t read her eyes, which were shaded with a green acetate insert behind her glasses.

“He’s asleep,” said Judith.

“R and R is over,” said the sergeant.

“Besides, his mission’s accomplished,” said the admiral. “This position’s no longer useful — it’s behind us.”

How did you know it was in front of you before? Judith wondered. But the sergeant and Quick’s son were already past her and inside. They went to the sofa and took him by his arms, the sergeant saying, “Now is the time for all good men—”

John, Judith’s former husband, stood a little behind the others, on the porch steps. The younger woman in the overalls stood with him. Judith looked at him. Suppressing a smile, he held out his hands and said, “It’s true, Judith. A good scout has to stay ahead.”

“I don’t think he came here to scout,” she said.

The sergeant and Quick’s son had him up and walking, sort of. His head was drooped forward, and Judith could see that if they let go, he’d crumple. Yet he was planting one foot after another, moving forward. She felt a little proud, oddly enough. They got him through the door and across the porch, where John and the younger woman helped him down the steps and held him while Quick’s son retook his duffel bags. No one but Quick’s son had to carry any luggage, which testified to his low status within the militia. If he could even be said to be a part of it, Judith corrected. The sleepy man might only be a scout, but he was obviously crucial to them.

The admiral poked the end of his walking stick at the mat in front of her door. “What’s this?”

The sergeant turned his head. “It says welcome,” he said.

“That’s hardly advisable,” said the admiral.

The sergeant lifted the mat. “Might make a heck of a chest protector,” he said, sizing it across his stomach. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” said Judith.

The sergeant tucked the edge of the mat into his belt, so it projected like a section of cone from his waist, terminating at chin level. “Hey hey!” he said, beaming.

“We’re off, then,” said the lieutenant, moving aside to let the admiral use the steps. She clasped Judith’s hand in both of hers. “For everything, thanks.” Judith nodded, and the lieutenant turned away.

John and the younger woman had walked the sleepy man out to the curb. The rest of the militia trickled across the yard and bunched around them. Several of them put a hand out to help support the sleepy man, and they began to advance along the pavement. The sleepy man looked conspicuous among them without a hat, Judith thought. She hoped they’d find him one.

She stood and watched them from the porch. Soon they were at the end of the block, just a little black knot headed into the mist. She couldn’t make out the sleepy man, couldn’t distinguish any of them. God help him, she thought, then corrected it to, God help them. But that wasn’t right either. God bless them? God bless us all? Just before they were completely out of sight she narrowed it to a curt God bless , as though someone had only sneezed.

JONATHAN LETHEM is the author of six novels, including Motherless Brooklyn, The Fortress of Solitude , and Gun, with Occasional Music . He lives in Brooklyn.