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

When he caressed me I got hard, despite my fear.

“Okay. Okay. That feel good? Aw, look at that.” He was talking to himself now. A steady patter which he kept up over the sound of my whimpering. “Look here Tom, I got one too. Big -size. Daddy-size.” He straddled me. “Open up for the choo-choo, Tommy. Uh.”

I didn’t pass out this time until he flipped me over, my arms and legs twisted, my stomach and thighs pressed into the dirt. Blackness didn’t come until then.

Then I crossed back over.

Another safe passage back from Hell, thanks again to The Happy Man.

If anyone at the station had questions about my behavior, they kept to themselves.

I came back on mike again. “—bumper to bumper down to the Dumbarton…” I trailed away in the middle of the traffic report and punched in a commercial break on cart. “Anyone got something to drink?” I said into the station intercom.

“I think there’s some beer in the fridge,” said Andrew, the support technician on shift, poking his head into the studio.

“Keep this going,” I said, and left. He could run a string of ads, or punch in one of our prerecorded promos. It wasn’t a major deviation.

The station fridge was full of rotting, half-finished lunches and pint cartons of sour milk, plus a six-pack of lousy beer. It wasn’t Johnnie Walker, but it would do. I needed to wash the memory of Eagery’s flesh out of my mouth.

I leaned against the wall of the lounge and quietly, methodically, downed the beer.

The programming was piped into the lounge and I listened as Andrew handled my absence. He loaded in a stupid comedy promo; the words “Rock me” from about a million old songs, spliced together into a noisy barrage. Then his voice came over the intercom. “Lenny’s down here, Tom. Take off if you want.”

I didn’t need a second hint. In ten minutes I was trapped in the bumper to bumper myself, listening to the station on my car radio.

Maureen’s car wasn’t in the driveway when I pulled up. She was still at work. No reason to hurry home if she thought I was still away, I suppose. But the lights were on. Peter was home. And, as it turned out, so was Uncle Frank. I’d forgotten about the visit, but while I was away he’d set up in the guest room.

He and Peter were sitting together in front of the computer, playing Hell. They looked up when I came in, and Peter recognized the change in the tone of my voice right away. Smart kid.

“Hey, Dad.” He made a show of introducing us, so Frank would understand that there was a change. “Dad, Uncle Frank’s here.”

Frank and I shook hands.

I hadn’t seen my father’s brother for seven or eight years, and in that time he’d aged decades. He was suddenly a gray old man. It made me wonder how my father would look if he were still around.

“Tommy,” Frank said. “It’s been a long time.” His voice was as faded and weak as everything else. I could hear him trying to work out the difference between me now and the zombie version he’d been living with for the past few days.

I didn’t let him wonder for too long. I gave his hand a good squeeze, and then I put my arms around him. I needed the human contact anyway, after Hell.

“I need a drink,” I said. “Frank?” I cocked my head toward the living room. Uncle Frank nodded.

The kid got the drift on his own. “I’ll see you later, Dad.” He turned back to his computer, made a show of being involved.

I led Frank to the couch and poured us both a drink.

Though I hadn’t seen him since before I died, Uncle Frank knew all about my situation. We wrote letters, and every once in a while spoke on the phone. Frank had never married, and after my father died he and I were one another’s only excuse for “family.” He wasn’t well off, but he’d wired Maureen some cash when I died. In his letters he’d been generous, too, sympathetic and un-superstitious. In my letters I’d unloaded a certain measure of my guilt and shame at what my resurrection had done to the marriage, and he was always understanding. But I could see now that he had to make an effort, in person, not to appear uncomfortable. He’d been living with my soulless self for a few days, and his eyes told me that he needed to figure out who he was talking to now.

For my part, I was making an adjustment to the changes in Frank. In my memory he was permanently in his forties, a more garrulous and eccentric version of my father. Frank had been the charismatic oddball in the family, never without a quip, never quite out of the doghouse, but always expansive and charming. I’d often thought that my falsely genial on-radio persona was based on a pale imitation of Frank. Only now he just seemed tired and old.

“You’ve got a nice setup here, Tom,” he said quietly.

“That’s Maureen’s work,” I said. “She busts her ass keeping it all together.”

Frank nodded. “I’ve seen.”

“How long you staying with us?”

Now Frank snickered in a way that recalled, if only faintly, the man I remembered. “How long you have me?”

“You don’t need to be back?” How Frank made his living had always been unclear. He’d been a realtor at some point, then graduated to the nebulous status of “consultant.” Professional bullshitter was always my hunch.

But now he said, “I’m not going back. I think I want to set up out here for a while.”

“Well, for my part you’re welcome to stick around until you find a place,” I said. He’d sounded uncomfortable, and I decided not to pry. “It’s really up to Maureen, you understand. The burden’s on her—”

“Oh, I’ve been helping out,” he said quickly. “I’ve become quite a chef, actually…”

The way he trailed away told me I’d probably already eaten several of his meals. “I’m sure,” I said. There was a pause. “Listen, Frank, let’s break the ice. I don’t remember shit about what happens while I’m away. Treat me like a newborn babe when I come back. One who nurses on a whiskey tumbler.”

I watched him relax. He lowered his eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Tom. I haven’t been around family, I mean real family, for so long. It’s got me thinking about the past. You know…” He looked up sharply. “You’re a grown man. Have been for a long time. But your dad and your mom and you as a little kid, me coming to visit — that’s how I remember you. Always will, I think.”

“I understand.” I worked on my whiskey.

“Anyway—” He waved his hand dismissively. “It’s good to see you finally. Good to see the three of you together, making it go.”

“I’m glad it looks good.” I could only be honest. “It isn’t always easy.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean, I mean, yes. Of course. And anything, any little thing I can do to help—” He watched my eyes for reaction, looking terribly uncomfortable. “And Tom?”

I nodded.

“I already mentioned this to Maureen and Peter. Uh, you don’t seem to pick up the phone when you’re away, but now that you’re back—”

“Yes?”

“If you do pick up the phone, if anyone calls, I'm not here , okay?”

“Sure, Frank.”

“I just need to create a little distance right now,” he said obscurely.

I wasn’t sure whether to press him on the point. My chance was taken away, anyway, by Maureen’s arrival. She walked in and peered at us over the top of a couple of bags of groceries, then took them on into the kitchen without saying a word. She knew I was back. The drink in my hand told her all she needed to know.

Frank got up and hurried into the kitchen behind her. I heard him insist on putting away the groceries by himself.

Then Maureen came out. I put my drink on the coffee table and stood up and we stood right next to each other, close without quite touching for a long time. Quiet, knowing that when words came, things might get too complicated again. In the background I could hear Frank putting the groceries into the fridge and the gentle, hurried tapping of Peter’s fingers on his keyboard.