Lois Metzger: A Trick of the Light

Because she was too busy talking about herself. Could she be more self-centered?

Tamio: “You wanna come over later? We can pick up some clay and make the model. What do you think—film in black and white or color?”

Tamio starts talking about the advantages of black and white versus color, or vice versa; how in a black-and-white movie you can use ink for blood and it looks authentic, but color in general is better, and Tamio says he can get his hands on some really good fake blood called Kensington Gore, which, if you add glycerine to it, thickens like the real thing. Then Tamio starts talking about Japan, how he met some girl there; he didn’t think much about it, but now she might visit the city with her parents over Christmas break…. Tamio’s acting as though he just got back from Japan and the past four months never happened.

But they did so happen. I am living proof.

Mike goes to Tamio’s after school, though Tamio has to call Mike’s mom first and assure her that Mike will have a snack: oatmeal cookies and a milkshake. If Tamio had any character to speak of, he’d let Mike off the hook, but he’s such a spy and traitor, he’ll probably force-feed Mike himself.

Tamio’s mom makes a big fuss over Mike. If it were me, I’d find it embarrassing and over-the-top, but Mike doesn’t seem to mind it, even when she gives him a crushing hug (she’s a lot stronger than she looks). She keeps saying how happy she is to see him; meanwhile she has a look of tragedy on her face.

Mike and Tamio work in the dining room, Mike’s favorite place in Tamio’s house—it’s always sunny, or it feels that way to him, surrounded by pictures of flowers and actual flowers on the table too—carnations. I don’t understand the appeal of flowers. They rot so quickly; what’s the point? Beauty should have permanence.

Tamio’s mom puts waxed paper on the table so they can spread out the clay they got at an art-supply store, a huge gray mound of it. The model for the original King Kong was eighteen inches tall, except for full-scale models of the head, a hand, and a foot; Mike and Tamio want to emulate that and make the Cyclops eighteen inches tall. Of course it won’t have a metal skeleton the way Kong did, with foam rubber and latex and rabbit fur so it looked like a real gorilla. This thing will probably look, heaven help me, like Gumby.

Tamio: “Ralph and Melissa. Did you ever think that would happen?”

Mike: “Not in this lifetime.”

They talk about Ralph and Melissa for a while, and I can barely stay with them. Then they concentrate on their movie. They decide that the heads will be like those of fraternal twins, not identical ones. Tamio will sculpt one head and Mike will do the other. Mike has never handled modeling clay before, having preferred to be a disc jockey rather than sit with the other kids at the art table. He likes the feel of it in his hands, the slightly outdoorsy smell of it, how it’s soft, but firm enough to hold its shape, adjustment after adjustment.

Walking. That’s the first thing they decide to film—the Cyclops walking. What does a body do when it takes a step; how do the muscles interact, the arms move, the shoulders, neck, hips? Apparently this is very complicated. Of course Mike should be running, not worrying about how a Cyclops walks.

Tamio (sculpting his head): “Does he have a name?”

Mike: [nothing]

Tamio: “Harryhausen always said his creatures should have some character.”

Mike remembers what Miranda said about his Cyclops’s loneliness: a mutant in a race of mutants.

Mike: “Let’s call him Ray.”

Tamio (grinning his crooked grin): “Harryhausen would be honored.”

They talk about the story. Ray needs to fight someone or something. Should they create another creature, this one with thumbs and a big head, because, as Tamio points out, Harryhausen said creatures with thumbs and big heads appear more human, and therefore more intelligent?

I am growing numb with boredom. I would tear my hair out, if I had hair.

Tamio: “We can use your cat. Film Mighty Joe Young clawing at something, then cut to shots of Ray.”

The cat? This is so ridiculous, I actually have to tune them out. I don’t do that as a rule, but even I have my limits, and it’s not like I have to stand guard every second. Mike has to do this for school, and I can get him when he’s free again.

When I catch up to them, Mike is putting the finishing touches on his clay head, adding what looks like a ridged eyebrow over the one eye.

Mike: “…my idea. Ray has two heads. He has two voices. What if he has to fight one of his own voices?”

Wait—what? What is Mike saying?

Tamio: “What’s wrong with the voice?”

Mike: “Maybe one of the heads is suddenly possessed—by an evil spirit or something. Ray’s a creature, but this thing inside him is a monster, you know? It says stuff. It gets Ray to do things he shouldn’t. It acts like it’s Ray’s best friend, but really it wants to kill him.”

I am far more angry with myself than with Mike. This never would’ve happened if I’d stayed alert.

Mike: “You can only see the monster in a mirror. It looks like—a skeleton head.”

Tamio: “Cool.”

Mike: “The problem is, how do you get rid of it? How do you stop a voice?”

Tamio: “Give me a minute.”

Do you realize how crazy you sound? Look at Tamio—he thinks you’re crazy. He’ll call your mom. She’s probably already on his speed dial. Next thing you know, you’re back in the hospital.

Tamio: “There’s a pit, okay? A pit of voices. Ray has to lead the voice to the pit. When he gets closer, he can hear all the voices inside, overlapping and trying to be heard, but now they’re stuck in the pit, and anyway there’s too many to listen to and you can’t make out any single voice anymore. Ray has to leave the voice in the pit.”

Mike: “How?”

Tamio: “Being near the pit of voices will help. It’s clear that once there, the voices are in a weakened, powerless state.”

Mike: “And once the voice is in the pit?”

Tamio: “It’s trapped.”

Mike: “What if it breaks free?”

Tamio (nodding): “It might do that.” Pause. “Then we’ll come up with something else.”

You and me both, Tamio seems to be implying. Well, he’s sadly mistaken. This is only a movie, with a totally imaginary voice as a villain. Whereas I am good for Mike; I am on his side; I won’t betray him, like everyone else. This pointless project means no more to Mike than doing a few algebra equations, soon forgotten.

MIKE AND HIS DAD ARE IN SPRUCE HILLS ON Saturday, two days before Christmas, heading for the mall. The streets are so crowded with shoppers that they’re constantly edging out of the way of people with giant overstuffed plastic bags and shiny packages. Snow is coming; the sky is blindingly white; it’s chilly, but Mike has his jacket open. He likes feeling this way, not so cold.

The cold doesn’t matter when you’re getting fit and strong.

Then Mike sees her—a woman with spiky black hair.

Mike: “I know that woman.”

Dad: “Who?”

She’s standing right in front of them as if they had all arranged to meet at this exact spot at this exact moment. It’s that client of Mike’s mom. What was her name again? Meg.

Keep walking. You have nothing to say to this woman.

But she recognizes Mike too, or thinks she does. She smiles, and her expression is asking a question: Do I know you?

Mike: “I’m Mike Welles. You hired my mom to clean out your closet.”

That smile of hers fades fast.

Mike: “This is my dad.”

They shake hands.