Don Delillo - Players

"Where's my shoes?”

"You didn't have them.”

"I didn't have them, right.”

"I speak the truth.”

"No shoes," he said.

"Which explains your feet.”

"What, cut?”

"Bruised," she said.

He dressed and then started hopping on one foot while he examined the other. Pammy was on one knee, lacing the second sneaker. It seemed too much effort to get up.

"Which way back?”

"I don't know but we should get moving, I guess.”

"I guess," he said.

"We say what?”

"We were here, if he asks.”

"We took a walk.”

"We look, glaa, like a little messy.”

"There's a windjammer, look.”

"We took a walk to the meadow," he said.

"Can you see it, three masts? Don't worry. We took a walk. That's all.”

"Sure, like this.”

"So your shirt has a couple of wrinkles. No big deal, Jack.”

"Hiccup, hiccup.”

"Which way?”

"We went to the meadow and what? Looked at some boat for all this time?”

"It's not a problem, Jack.”

"Not for you, it's not.”

"Look, we skipped rocks for an hour and a half. We looted a graveyard. Who cares? He's not going to question us. We clubbed baby seals for their pelts.”

"Ethan is responsible for me. He is willing to be that. He accepts.”

"Jack, it's all right.”

"I'm in no mood to start things with Ethan right now. He accepts, whatever it is. My whole life. He is willing to be responsible.”

She realized she'd had that look on her face, briefly, gazing out at the windjammer, that dumb smile. They headed back through the woods, finding the right dirt road only after a period of some confusion, a brief disagreement over landmarks.

After the rain she sat with Ethan by the fire. At this angle, in his deep chair, he appeared to be asleep. She walked away from the light source and opened a side door just enough to thrust her face out into the night. The force of it, the snap of damp pine, was enough to startle her. Points of biolumines-cence were evident nearby, fireflies bouncing on the air, thimblefuls of abdominal light. She noted a faint odor of decomposition, bayside. When she slid the door shut her face grew warm immediately. Awareness washed away in layers and she went back to her chair. Ethan got up just long enough to poke a log apart: rekindling and hiss.

"There's something about your hair tonight. It's very black and shiny. A Japanese quality. The light, the way it hits.”

"To go with my German mouth.”

"It needs a topknot.”

"What's his name, the samurai?”

"You should try that, Ethan. A topknot. Back at the office.”

"I do sort of emit a certain feudal menace.”

He prolonged the word "feudal." Jack came in then. He took off his sweater and tossed it over the back of a chair. He sat on the flagstone hearth that extended about four feet into the room, his gaze directed between his feet. His voice was subdued, blending suggestions of fatalism and studied weariness. He paused often to take deep breaths.

"I saw it again. Out near the car. There's a gap in the trees. It was right there. I don't know, two hundred yards away. It was the same one. It was pulsing. Maybe not as bright this time. Greenish. The same green. I could see from near the car right out over the bay. Blue-green light. But solid behind it. An object. The light glowed and pulsed so it was hard to tell the shape the thing was. But it was solid. I knew it. I said it to myself standing there. I was carefuler this time. Color, shape, I kept my mind on it. I said don't move, keep it in sight. I never moved my head. I don't remember even blinking. Then it dipped a little and glided up and further out over the bay, going south and west, getting smaller. Then the trees blocked my view and I ran down to the water and I still could see it. Just the light, bluish green, getting small, small, small. Nothing solid. But before that it was solid. I told myself. I said it standing there. This is light from an object. There's a thing out there.”

"A turquoise helicopter," Ethan said.

"The way to attack this," Pammy said, "is to make a list of all the rational possibilities. Then see what we can eliminate and what we're left with.”

"But no problem. It's a turquoise helicopter. Turquoise is the Maine state color.”

"That was a police helicopter.”

"Of course. No mystery whatsoever. Patrolling the bay.”

"Patrolling the bay for UFOs.”

"There've been sightings, I understand.”

"I don't care," Jack said.

"And which ties right in with the state motto.”

"Turquoise Forever," she said.

"No, In Turquoise We Trust.”

"But that's only one rational possibility. We have to list many. Or two at any rate. It's the government standard.”

"A turquoise pigeon.”

"No, no, come on, has to be different.”

"A fourteen-ton turquoise pigeon breathing heavily.”

"Go right ahead," Jack said.

"United in Truth, Justice and Turquoise.”

"E Pluribus Turquoise.”

"There's got to be at least one other possibility," she said. "The man here claims he saw it. It's only right we come up with a second interpretation.”

"Saint Elmo's fire.”

"What's that?”

"I'm naming the bloody things. Do I have to explain them too?”

"You didn't explain the turquoise helicopter. I knew right away what you meant.”

"It's an electrical discharge. A phenomenon that takes place before, during or after storms. I don't know-choose two. See, you people don't know the references. Your early years were abortive, Pammy old kid. I could say a shirt with a Mr. B. collar. You've no idea, right? So-and-so's decked out in his Mr. B. collar.”

Jack headed upstairs, reaching for his sweater as he passed the chair, carrying it crumpled, one rust-colored arm brushing the edge of each step as he ascended. It started raining again. Pammy checked a row of paperback books set on a broad shelf between the portable TV and the wall. Mystery, mystery, spy, sex, mystery. The books were old, sepia-toned inside; pages would snap cleanly. Ethan poured a drink and returned to his chair. Proceeding slowly, measuring her steps like an animated toy soldier, heel-walking, she moved to the hearth, sitting where Jack had, a possible token of remorse.

"How upset is he? Is he upset?”

"Jack's whole life he's been made to feel expendable.”

"Small things upset him.”

"He takes things as accusations, diminishments. Then he in turn accuses, often privately, going off to sulk. I think he condemns his surroundings as much as anything. People he sees within that frame. Some places are good, somehow. Others he feels reduced in. He gets no sense of himself, I suppose. I guess there were places all along the line, earlier. Relatives, so on. The people are blurs now.”

"Sometimes you can almost see his mind working. It darts back and forth. You can see he's estimating away in there, working out the advantages.”

"Some people have clandestine mentalities.”

"It darts.”

"Some people are open-natured, generous and humane.”

"Us, for instance.”

"You and me," he said.

In the middle of the night she heard the trees, that sound of wave action caused by high winds. There was someone in the living room, a fire. She got out of bed. Jack was sitting on the sofa, hands cupped behind his neck. She opened the door a bit wider and tilted her head in a certain way. Conciliation. Permission to enter his presence. He continued to grip his neck as though about to do a sit-up. She sat on the bed. When he passed, half an hour later, on his way upstairs, she was at the door. It was her instinct that touch makes anything possible. The slightest contact. She put her hand to his forearm. Barest touch. Enough, she thought, to restore their afternoon.