Michael Thomas - Man Gone Down

I try a bedroom window to see if it opens. It does. I close it quickly and think about finding some way to screw them shut — angle irons perhaps, screwed into the frame and sill. I shake that notion off, go sit on the couch and look back at them, try to see through — the imagined sway of the outer wall in the wind. The airshaft is the space between the stars, seemingly nothing, but a place, space — darkness upon the deep. No thing —a mask upon the abyss. When I was a boy, I already knew of that double-dark, so I wondered what starlight was — an ancient message of good beamed from somewhere so far away it could only be measured in time. But stars burn out, explode, or collapse inward — everything near pulled into absence. Darkness on the deep: the temporary and ancient light — its death, the hole from its implosion, deeper than any interstellar shroud.

I put Eliot away and browse through the rest of her books. There’s a compilation of early Superman comics. I start to take it out but then remember that I never liked him — the lost son of doomsday prophets, rocketed away as an infant just before his planet was destroyed. I always thought that he was too smug for that amount of grief.

Time passes. It’s late. I don’t know if I’ve been sleeping. I don’t think so. When I sleep, I have nightmares and I wake up screaming. I don’t think I ever convinced Claire that my inability to put myself in bed and then to sleep had anything to do with her. And when we had kids, each one spent a good amount of time in that bed. I’d roam from kitchen to couch, waiting to shut down — a small death — not sleep but a place before or beyond it where nothing happens, where you’re safe from a cumulative history represented by some toothy demon calling for your blood. Even if I do sleep and don’t remember the dream, I still can feel when I awake that I’ve been attacked.

The door clicks. There’s a rustle of bags and keys jangle. I shoot to my feet, move quickly to the stereo, and turn it down.

She’s soaked. Her stretched-out curls are matted to her long neck and face. She seems disoriented, looking down at the floor, holding a bag in either hand. Finally, she looks up with a start, sees me, and tries to smile. The little forced grin doesn’t last for long. From across the room and because of the rain I can’t tell, but it looks like she’s been crying, as recently as the elevator ride up.

She puts both bags in one hand and drops her keys onto the floor. “You were right,” she chirps, still trying to cover the sadness. She looks over at the spread on the table for some cheer, but I’ve disappointed her there. She exhales, lets her shoulders drop, then fills herself up again. Such a beautiful woman. The cold rain has washed all the red from her cheeks, and those strange brown freckles twinkle on her. For a moment I forget that she’s studying me, too.

I gesture, dumbly, back through the doorway. She remembers the bags, bounces forward as though to jump-start a lighter mood in herself. She sets one bag on the table, stops, and seems to be locked there for a moment. She empties her pockets — some paper scraps, bills and change, then shakes her head like a child responding to a hurtful question.

“I hate myself when I do this”—she remembers me, looks up, and tries to spin it as a joke. “I’m so unorganized.”

She walks to the counter in a way I didn’t think she could — heavily, tired — takes the open bottle of wine and loops her fingers through two mug handles.

“You should dry off.”

“Thanks, I will.” She wrinkles her brow and nods as though my statement requires deeper consideration. And when her face goes soft again, I wonder when was the last time someone considered her at all. It makes me back up into the bedroom. She follows, sad-faced again. But as she comes nearer, she starts trying to regroup. “In my new bathroom.” She sets the bag down and I smell garlic, roasted meat, maybe even french fries. She circles the bag then drops down cross-legged beside it. She starts taking things out, moving faster, regaining that earlier energy. She even starts to smile.

“I got this from my restaurant.” She spreads some napkins on the floor and dumps out a pile of shoestrings. “I love free food.”

“You own a restaurant?” I mumble, trying to sound interested — trying not to look too closely at her or what she’s doing.

“I bartend at a restaurant.” She seems to have forgotten how sad and wet she is and snorts at my expense. “You think I own something?”

“Sorry.”

“Oh,” she waves a fry at me but concentrates on pouring two cups of wine. “It’s okay, honey. I don’t even know if I’d want to own one. There’s something to be said about counting your cash and leaving,” she rolls her eyes up at me. “Right?”

“Right.”

“Here’s to living under the radar.” She raises a mug and drinks, then pats the floor beside the other cup. “You have to eat some of this — so sit.” She keeps patting the floor until I do, with my back against the couch. She shrugs, eats the fry, hums something to herself, rolls her eyes back up to me, shaking her head with a widening grin. She stops suddenly.

“What’s that smell?”

“Primer.” She pinches her face as though to question. I jerk my head at the bathroom and raise my pitch to help clarify. “Primer.”

She frowns strangely, stands, and skates to the bathroom, wiping her hands. I stand, too. She enters. “Oh, my god!” she sticks her head out, then moves her whole body to the opening. “Where? How?”

“I stole it.”

She starts to turn in the doorway — looking at my work, looking at me — examining and reexamining as though I’d gutted and refurbished the whole room. “Wow,” she mouths and then comes into the bedroom, toward me, more like a glide than a walk. She stops a few feet away.

“You’re so bad — you’re awesome. I would’ve been so chickenshit to do that. Beth, she’s great, but you know what, fuck her. I’ve dumped so much money into her place — making it better.”

“This is hers?”

“Yeah, I’m a renter. Even if I could afford it, I probably couldn’t get a place — I’m on the lam. My ex, this was his studio, he wasn’t supposed to live here, but he did. Beth hated him, but we got along. I think she inherited the building from her father. Everything he did was illegal — taxes, parking tickets. So when he left, Beth said I could stay. I’ve been here — shit — seven years.” She looks back into the bathroom. “Oh, my god.” She shakes her head slowly. “Thank you.” She reaches out, almost touches my arm. But she does stare at me, which forces me to look down, shuffle, and inch back to the couch. She looks down at my fingers— for the umpteenth time. “I’ve turned you into a criminal.” She turns her voice down. “Your wife won’t like that much.”

“Well,” I stutter, speaking before any thought can intervene.

“Don’t — it’s okay. I didn’t mean anything. You still together?”

“I don’t know.”

“Kids?”

“Three.”

“Pictures?” she brightens.

“No.”

“I’ll bet they’re beautiful.”

I nod.

“It must be hard.”

“You should change.” I hit that note again, but this time it sounds off-key. It makes her neck bend awkwardly to the side. After it fades, she straightens and raises both palms to me.

“I’m sorry.” She thumbs into the bathroom. “I’m going to change.” She glides over to the stacked crates, pulls out some things, balls them up, and glides back, with one last quick look to see if I’ve been watching.

How does a man disappear— for a decade? From others, from self — nomadic, hand to mouth, episodic in achievement. Never went to law school. No real estate license. What happened? You go to sleep young and somewhat stupid and wake up to new noises — the clock — new complaints, things that didn’t hold any sway before. From the bathroom she lets out a semiprivate “Wow,” turns on the tub, but stops it quickly. I can hear the sheets of ply creak under her as she shifts her weight — leaning, then sliding her feet along behind. She inspects the medicine cabinet, opens and closes it with a soft click and a dull thud. She looks in the mirror, scrutinizes her freckles, the beginnings of her age lines. The light is poor. She opens the door one more time and fills the cabinet with beauty products I hadn’t noticed were there.