Chapter 1 #24
And with this he began seeking death, opening himself eagerly up to it, seeing it as the end of something difficult: not his whole life (which had been wonderful) but just this last phase of it, and not even this whole last day, no, just this evening, and not even the whole evening, just the part of it that began when I came here and started filling his mind with doubts about who he was and what he’d done.
But that was finished now and the next phase was about to begin.
This fellow here—who once, though small, had been kind of wonderful-looking, with thick blond hair that went nearly white in summer and snappy little muscles—this fellow here (with a hump on his back now, and patches of terrible-looking eczema all over, and chest muscles that swung like sausages as he dried his feet with a towel)—this fellow here (with a tumor the size of a grape right here behind this eye, a tumor still growing, even now)—this ugly old conglomeration of flesh was going away (like the planks in the floor of his childhood home, like the glass in the windows and the shingles on the roof), and also going away was the flesh-wad in his noggin that had, all these years, been making the thoughts, feelings, and beliefs that had made him, and soon there’d be nothing but a big empty field where his beloved childhood home had been and nothing but a stiff moldering hunk of irrelevant meat left of what had once been the great K.J. —
As for anything he might’ve done “wrong”—
Yes? I said.
I got swept up, he said.
In? I said.
Me, he said. Myself.
Goodness.
But what else could I have done, he said.
He was speaking, in his crude way, of elevation itself.
True, it was only in his head (a mere idea, not yet visceral or urgent).
But his was a formidable intelligence and could cover vast amounts of ground quickly.
Don’t give up, I said. You’re on to something.
Am I, he said.
Say goodbye to it, I said. Goodbye to the self. That’s all you need to—
Not so fast, ladybug, he said.
There was something he needed me to know.
—
First off:
Nobody could know what it was like, being him.
Nobody.
How delicious, how perfect.
Nobody.
Though physically he might have been in Texas, he’d actually been everywhere. People in Paris knew of him, and Dubai and Berlin and Cape Town, and would refer to him by his whole name: K. J. Boone.
What’s K. J. Boone going to think of that?
We have to consider the whole K. J. Boone of it all. Don’t we?
They did.
They surely did.
To be him was to be always the biggest fish in a sea of substantial fish.
At a shareholders’ meeting, or up at the Capitol, or out on a swanky veranda at some conference center in the Alps.
All that power, all that money, all those massed experiences gazing up at him, awaiting his words.
He had something to offer; they needed him.
He spoke easily, with authority, was charming, in his way; he persuaded, left people feeling his way was the best way.
He presented powerfully (if humbly), but it was more than that.
What he was, they were not, and would never be; where he’d been, they hadn’t been (and couldn’t go); what he knew, they’d never know.
So they turned to him, trusted him, feared him, even.
Only a handful of people in all of history had ever known that kind of power.
Presidents, maybe, depending on the era; kings, sure, but their kingdoms were not worldwide; movie stars and such, but that was all superficial crap.
He spoke and markets moved; called a king and the king picked up.
He’d decided we were sticking with oil and, goddamn it, we’d stuck with oil and the world got twenty, thirty good years in exchange.
You’re welcome.
You’re welcome, world.
Goodbye, beloved hunk of rock, overrun of late with jabbering moronic ingrates.
His enemies could have it, the whole damn thing.
Every last one of them could freeze to death while starving in the dark.
He was going home now, to God, his dear God, who’d always loved and protected him and made good things, all the best things, happen for him. Thank you, Lord, thank you for making me who I was and not some little squirming powerless nincompoop.
Thank you for making me unique, one of a kind, incomparable, victorious.
For making me me.
This guy.
This guy right here.
Over and out.
Uh-oh, I thought.
It’s hooey, pure hooey, he said, turning on me with surprising force, given the negligible trace of life left in him.
You’re a hooey-pusher. A false prophet. Anybody ever buy that elevation crap?
You ever actually sold anybody on that line of bull?
What a snore. Not for me, thanks. When I win, I dance.
When I lose? Also dance. I dance the dance called: next time, fuckers.
Goodbye forever, lady. You lost. You blew it.
You comforted me not one iota. And I want you to know that.
He was like a deflated balloon in which, despite all external appearances, there remained one last bit of air.
Or vitriol.
Or spite.
With which someone could yet be hurt.
If he just put his mind to it.
—
But then a sudden look of warmth passed over his face.
Do you remember, he said.
Remember what? I said gently.
(Perhaps a change of heart? We had, after all, been through so much together.)
That salamander, he said.
Sorry? I said.
That angel food cake, he said.
I’m not your mother, I said.
I felt a presence behind me, and turned, and there she was:
A country woman, of our ilk, taken aback to find herself in such a grand house, surprisingly tall, taller than he’d dreamed her up earlier.
She approached timidly, head down, as if afraid she might say something that would, at this fraught moment, harm or confuse him.
Will you excuse us? she said.
I withdrew.
Withdrew from the orb of his thoughts.
She knelt beside the bed with some difficulty, arthritic from all those years of farm- and housework.
What song is this? she said and hummed a little tune.
“Bluebird Lane,” said my charge.
Remember that table in your room? she said.
You painted it red, he said.
With gold trim, she said.
I’m dying, he said.
Oh, my boy, she said.
Then she spoke to him so softly I couldn’t hear.
But he was, it seemed, comforted.
I edged back into the orb of his thoughts and confirmed it.
Yes.
All was well, he felt. He was off the hook. His mother’d just said as much.
There’d been some sort of misunderstanding here lately, he felt her to have said.
Lots of mean talk and allegations and strange idiots showing up at the last minute.
But he’d done nothing wrong. On the contrary, he’d always been a good boy, who’d become a good man, and had gone out and done all sorts of interesting things that she and her people, and his father and his people, being poor folks, had never had a chance to do. That made a mother proud. Yes, it did.
So, no: he’d done nothing wrong.
At all.
On the contrary.
He should go on now, to glory.
Are you in glory? he asked.
She smiled uncertainly, got slowly to her feet.
Someday, she said. Maybe. But one such as you? Should just go right on ahead.
He began truly dying.
His mind was no longer accessible to me; he was no longer thinking, not in the conventional sense, had begun the transition, was merging with all-that-is, leaving the husk of himself behind, becoming something both more and less than he had ever been before.
His wife, sensing what was happening, rose.
Their daughter rose too.
The two of them stepped forward on either side of his mother.
Wife, mother, daughter stood there in a row.
Then his father returned. Still raw from their earlier encounter, he lingered in the doorway in the familiar country slouch.
My charge’s eyes went to him. His father raised a hand in greeting, the hand short a finger.
Then he grew timid, brought it down, raised the other, undamaged hand.
My charge understood this gesture to mean: We’ve had our differences, son, but you did big stuff, and if I, even by way of certain errors I made, contributed to that, well sir, I consider myself lucky to have been a part of that whole deal, truly.
You did us proud, said his mother.
And how, said his father.
Go on to glory, said his mother.
Then his mother went over, hungrily embraced his father, put her mouth greedily on his, and the two became one.
And it was over.
My charge’s wife (now widow) stepped up, smoothed his hair, kissed his head, took his two already-stiffening hands into her own and kissed them, left first, then right.
You did good, she said.
So good, the daughter said.
We love you and appreciate you, said his wife, in a voice louder than her usual speaking voice.
Amazing. It was always amazing.
Goodbye, goodbye, I thought, and then: Ah, hello.
Out of my charge’s body leaned my charge.
In spirit form now, of our ilk.
He rose from the bed, experiencing, as we all did at first, the suddenly less onerous influence of gravity, glanced at his wife and daughter, then looked over at me, puzzled.
And the Mels burst in.
—
At last, said G.
Long damn wait, said R.
They had with them a thick, coarse rope, which they wove between his legs, up over one shoulder, then around his waist. They cinched it tight and secured the arrangement with a tremendous rusty lock for which, I somehow knew, no key existed.
He’ll fight it at first, said G.
But in time, said R.
He’ll settle, said G.
Be broken, said R.
And together, we’ll roam the earth, encouraging former compatriots in their final moments, said G.
As we have encouraged him, said R.
Tonight, said G.
Only one side’s right, said R.
Our side, said G.
Otherwise, what? said R.
We were wrong? said G.
All along? said R. The totality of our life’s work a big bleck?
Every one of our life-moments spent in the service of utter doo-doo? said G.
Can’t have that, said R.
Won’t, said G.
Must remain entirely certain, said R.
At the risk of, said G.