Джордж Сондерс - CommComm

“Don’t you love them?” Giff says.

I remember them outside the funeral home the day we buried Jean, Mom holding Dad up, Dad trying to sit on a hydrant, wearing his lapel button, his lapel photo-button of little smiling Jean.

“Then better tell them,” Giff says. “Before it’s too late. Because watch.”

He stands, kind of shaky, hobbles over, breathes in my face.

Turns out when the recently dead breathe in your face they show you the future.

I see Mom and Dad trapped here forever, re-enacting their deaths night after night, more agitated every year, finally to the point of insanity, until, in their insanity, all they can do is rip continually at each other’s flesh, like angry birds, for all eternity.

I tell them.

“Very funny,” says Mom.

“Cut it out,” Dad says.

“We’re a little sad sometimes,” says Mom. “But we definitely ain’t dead.”

“Are we?” Dad says.

Then they get quiet.

“Holy crap,” Dad says.

Suddenly they seem to be hearing something from far away.

“Jeez, that’s better,” Dad says.

“Feels super,” Mom says.

“Like you had a terrible crick and then it went away,” Dad says.

“Like your dirty dress you had on for the big party all of a sudden got clean,” says Mom.

They smile, step through the wall, vanish in two little sudden blurps of light.

Giff’s pale and bent, glowing/shimmering, taller than in life, a weird breeze in his hair that seems to be coming from many directions at once.

“There is a glory, but not like how I thought,” he says. “I had it all wrong. Mostly wrong. Like my mind was this little basket, big flood pouring in, but all I got was this hint of greater water?”

“You were always a nice person,” I say.

“No, I was not,” he says. “Forced my little mini-views down everybody’s throat. Pinched my wife! And now it’s so sad. Because know what he did? Rimney? Typed her a note, like it was from me, saying I was leaving, due to I didn’t love her, due to that Kyle thing. But that is so not true! I loved her all through that. But now, rest of her life, she’s going to be thinking that of me, that I left her and the baby, when we were just getting over that pinching thing.”

His eyes fill with tears and his hair stops blowing and he crushes his pink glasses in his hand.

“Go see her,” I say. “Tell her the truth.”

“Can’t,” he says. “You just get one.”

“One what?” I say.

“Visitation or whatever?” he says.

I think, So why’d you come here?

He just smiles, kind of sad.

Then the front window implodes and Rimney climbs through with a tire iron.

“It’s going to happen now,” Giff says.

And it does. It takes two swings. It doesn’t hurt, really, but it’s scary, because it’s happening to me, me, me, me, the good boy in school, the boy who felt lilacs were his special flower, the boy who, when poor Jean was going, used to sneak off to cry in the closet.

As I go, there’s an explosion of what I can only call truth/energy flood. I can’t exactly convey it, because you’re still in that living/limited state, so lucky/unlucky, capable of smelling rain, rubbing palm against palm, having some new recently met someone suddenly brighten upon seeing you.

Rimney staggers to the door, unbolts it, stands looking out.

I pass through him and see that even now all his thoughts are of Val, desperate loving frightened thoughts of how best to keep her safe.

Giff and I cross the yard hand in hand, although like fifteen feet apart. Where are we going? I have no idea. But we’re going there fast, so fast we’re basically skimming along Trowman Street, getting simultaneously bigger/lighter, and then we’re flying, over Kmart/Costco Plaza, over the width of Wand Lake, over the entire hilly area north of town.

Below us now is Giff’s house: snow on the roof, all the lights on, pond behind it, moon in the pond.

Giff says/thinks, Will you?

And I say/think, I will.

She’s at the table doing bills, red-eyed, the note at her feet, on the floor. She sees me and drops her pen. Am I naked, am I pale, is my hair blowing? Yes and yes and yes. I put one bare foot on the note.

A lie, I say. Elliot’s dead, sends his love. Rimney did it. Rimney. Say it.

Rimney, she says.

That’s all the chance I get. The thing that keeps us flying sucks me out of the house. But as I go I see her face.

Rejoining Giff on high I show him her face. He is glad, and now can go.

We both can go.

We go.

Snow passes through us, gulls pass through us. Tens of towns, hundreds of towns stream by below, and we hear their prayers, grievances, their million signals of loss. Secret doubts shoot up like tracers, we sample them as we fly through: a woman with a too-big nose, a man who hasn’t closed a sale in months, a kid who’s worn the same stained shirt three days straight, two sisters worried about a third who keeps saying she wants to die. All this time we grow in size, in love, the distinction between Giff and me diminishing, and my last thought before we join something I can only describe as Nothing-Is-Excluded is, Giff, Giff, please explain, what made you come back for me?

He doesn’t have to speak, I just know, his math emanating from inside me now: Not coming back, he would only have saved himself. Coming back, he saved Mom, Dad, me. Going to see Cyndi, I saved him.

And, in this way, more were freed.

That is why I came back. I was wrong in life, limited, shrank everything down to my size, and yet, in the end, there was something light-craving within me, which sent me back, and saved me.