Scott Spencer - A Ship Made of Paper

“Smiley?What do you mean?”

“That’s what everyone called him.I used to see him in town when I

was a kid.”

Hampton shakes his head.“These people, they’re living in another century.They got their old family retainers, their fox-hunting clubs, their ice boats, they play tennis with these tiny little wooden racquets, and New Year’s Eve they put on the rusty tuxedos their grandfathers used to wear.”

“They can be pretty absurd,”Daniel says.“They’re halfmad, but it’s okay, ifyou have a sense ofhumor about it.”

“That was the first thing Iris ever said about you, how you have this terrific sense ofhumor.”

“Class clown,”says Daniel.“In my case, middle class.”

Hampton is still pinching black powder out ofhis back pocket, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger.He tosses the powder into the darkness, as ifscattering ashes after a cremation.He rakes a handful of dead leaves offofa wild cherry tree, one that is still standing, and uses them to wipe his hands.“I used to make Iris laugh all the time.”

“I used to make Kate laugh, too,”says Daniel.He says it because he has to say something.He cannot simply let Hampton go on about Iris and not say anything in reply.It would be too strange, and it would be suspi-cious, too.“First couple ofyears, I had her in hysterics.”

He notices that Hampton’s shaved head has suffered a scrape.There’s a little red worm ofblood on the smooth scalp.

“Kate doesn’t think you’re funny anymore?”

“No, she doesn’t,”Daniel says.

”Iris thinks you’re funny.Maybe you’re funnier around her.”

“Maybe she’s just very kind.”

“Or very lonely.”

As far as Daniel is concerned, this is torture.It might be better just to come out with it, tell Hampton: I love Iris, and it seems she loves me.We belong together.We do feel bad …Oh, shut up about feeling bad.Do you think he cares? He’d like you to have brain cancer, that would be the sort ofsuffering he’d like for you.Why are you offering up your stricken con-science—to make him feel you’ve been punished sufficiently?Are you so afraid ofhim?And with that question, Daniel at last connects to the core ofwhat had been plaguing him from the moment he and Hampton set offtogether in search ofMarie.It is not really about conscience, after all.

He’s been wrestling with conscience for months now, they are old spar-ring partners, sometimes he pins it to the mat, sometimes it slams him, it doesn’t really amount to much, it’s a show, like wrestling onTV.And besides:the worst sort ofremorse is preferable to what preceded it, which was the infinitely greater agony oflonging for Iris.Remorse is the payment due for the fulfillment ofhis great desire.And it is, finally, a payment he was willing to make.No, it is not his conscience that churns sickly at the center ofhim, making him cringe inwardly when Hampton steps too close to him.It is fear, physical fear.

They continue to walk, hoping to find a clearing, a way out.Once, most ofthis land was pasture, grazed by cattle, but it hadn’t seen a plow in over a hundred years and left to its own had become a wild place.They climb yet another hill.This one might have been steeper—because they both have to hold on to trees to pull themselves up—or else they are getting tired.

And once they have scaled it, all they can see is more trees—except on one side, where there is a sharp drop-off, leading to what looks like a large pond filled with black water.

“We came from that direction,”Hampton says uncertainly.He points down the hill upon which they stand, and offto the left.The night is gathering quickly, the darkness rushes in like water through the hull ofa ship, covering everything.

It seems to Daniel that they have walked down the hill, as well as walking up it.In fact, they may have traipsed up and down it three or four times.But he chooses to not argue the matter.

“All right,”he says.“I have no idea.”He touches the Roman candle in his back pocket.Maybe set it offright now, before it got any darker.But how much darker could it get? Better to save the flare for later, ifneeded.

“Do you know how to get out ofhere?”Hampton asks.

”No.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Fine, lead the way.”

They halfwalk and halfslide down the hill, with their arms in front oftheir faces to protect themselves from the saplings.

The problem is there is no space to walk in;the woods have imploded.They seem to be walking in circles, corkscrewing themselves into oblivion, continually tripping over vines, stumbling over fallen trees, getting scraped by branches, stomping into sudden pools ofstill water, sometimes walking right into a standing tree.It is as ifthey are be-ing toyed with.Isolated in their despair, they walk for halfan hour with-out speaking.

Then, suddenly, a little stretch where last month’s storm seemed to have done little damage.They walk for three minutes without having to change course.And though they don’t know which direction they are going in, the mere fact ofkeeping a constant course gives them a bit of encouragement.They are not, after all, in the middle ofsome vast un-charted wilderness.They are only a hundred miles north ofthe city.How far can they go without ending up on some stretch ofasphalt or in someone’s backyard? But then they reach a devastated grove oflocusts, the saplings with bark spiked with thorns, like giant, petrified roses.

There are so many ofthem down on the ground, or leaning against each other in a swoon, that it would have been impossible to get through them or past them even in daylight.

“I think we’ve already been here,”Hampton says.

”Really?What makes you think so?”

In the blindness ofthe night, Daniel can sense from the quality ofthe silence that Hampton is glaring at him.

“What makes me think so?”asks Hampton.His voice seems completely unconnected to his feelings;even in anger, it is melodious.

“I think we’re making progress,”Daniel says.

”Well, we’re not, we’re going in circles.”

“Hampton.I’ve been following you.All right?”

“We’re going in circles.”

“Well, you’ve been taking us there.”

“Daniel?”

“What?”

“Can I make a suggestion?”

“Sure.What?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

There is a rock nearby, embedded deeply into the forest floor and covered with moss and lichen.Hampton tries to scale it, hoping to see a break in the woods, but the soles ofhis shoes are slick, and as soon as he stands on the rock he slips and falls hard onto his hands and knees, and just stays there, with his head down, for several moments.

Daniel goes to his side, touches him softly on the shoulder.“Here,”he says.He puts out his hand.Hampton’s fingers are hard and cold;he grasps Daniel’s hand like a statue come to life.Daniel steps back and pulls Hampton to his feet.It is strange to be touching this man who once had, and is now losing, everything.

“You know,”Hampton says,“even in the dark I can still sort ofsee you.Your white skin picks up every little bit oflight there is.”

“Yeah?”

“I guess you can’t see me at all, can you?”

Daniel doesn’t want to say no;he just shakes his head.He wonders if Iris’s scent is on him—surely Hampton would recognize it.He moves a little farther away.This great secret life suddenly feels like groceries coming out ofa wet paper sack.

“What’s it like being lost out here with a big oldAfrican-American man who you basically do not know.”

“What are you talking about, Hampton?”

“Just that.I’m curious.I see white people all the time, but I rarely have the opportunity to ask them certain things.Do you know many black people, Daniel?”