Forgiving Ararat Page 9

  “Twenty-five a box, unopened, and I’ll throw in a crate of boots and gloves for every two medical.”

  “Davidson!” he hollers. “Get this lump of dog shit outta my office!”

  “Look Collins,” I counter, backtracking a little. “You couldn’t move this stuff if you set up a booth under the Eiffel Tower. I’ll give you three boots and gloves for every two medical. I can’t go any higher.”

  “One-fifty a box, Bowles, and you can keep your damn boots.”

  “Fifty.”

  “One-twenty-five.”

  “Seventy-five.”

  “Hundred.”

  “I got costs, Collins,” I tell him. “No way you’re comin’ out ahead of me. Seventy-five, take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll need a deposit.”

  “How much?”

  “Thousand.”

  “What?”

  “You ain’t the only one interested, Bowles. You the third white guy been sniffin’ round here today. One thousand in cash, final.”

  “I got five hundred on me,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “I’ll give you the rest tonight.”

  Collins thinks it over. “You know,” he says, his thick lips parting into a toothy greed-green smile, “I like you, Bowles. Get the rest here by 18:00.”

  I give Collins the money and walk out of the tent doing the math in my head. I can move at least a hundred boxes a month; at two hundred bucks a box, that’s twenty thousand gross, twelve-five net, minus grease money for the motor pool and perimeter patrol, maybe a thousand max. I just made eleven grand! I nearly skip over to the enlisted club to grab a beer and celebrate; but on my way I see two men opening the rear panel of the truck that almost hit me, parked now about fifty yards away. They crawl up inside and begin unloading empty black body bags onto a folding litter, stacked twenty at a time. I stop to watch them. The guys in the morgue detail pretty much keep to themselves and everyone else stays away from them. A guy will deny any belief in superstitions and walk out of his way to avoid getting anywhere near the morgue. I wonder whether the bags are new or whether they just reuse the old ones over and over again. It doesn’t seem right reusing them; violates the privacy of the first guy and insults the second. They gave their lives for chrissake; the least the Army can do is spring for new bags.

  Eleven grand...eleven... freakin’... grand!

  The body bags slap onto the litter like stacks of crisp, new script hitting a counter.

  Surplus, Toby. Just surplus, I tell myself. The stuff’s just sitting there while some French kid dies because his doctor can’t get enough sulfa and penicillin. A fellow ought to get paid when he puts himself on the line.

  Turning into the enlisted club I hear boots racing toward me, pounding like hooves. Before I can see what’s going on I’m knocked to the ground. There’s a sharp pain in my back; I try lifting my head, but it won’t move. Oh, my God, they’re shelling us and I’ve been hit!

  “Help!” I yell. “Help! Medic! I’ve been hit! I’ve been hit!”

  The pain in my back increases, like a great weight is bearing down on me.

  “Stop your damn yelling, Bowles,” a voice says, close behind, just above me. “You’re under arrest for theft.”

  Two MPs pull me off the ground and cuff my wrists behind my back. Over their shoulders, I see Collins in the door of the tent, shaking hands with another MP and handing him my money.

  Haissem is sitting again on the chair at the center of the Chamber. I feel the same sense of confusion and exhaustion that overwhelmed me after passing among all the souls and memories in the train station. I am not just watching Toby Bowles’ life, I am Toby Bowles. The rough cotton of his uniform chafes my skin; the cold, dusty air and cigarette smoke burn my lungs; the fatigue and fear of being near the front weigh heavy. I soar when the deal is struck and feel the MP’s knee in my back when he’s arrested.

  “Can you hear me now, Brek?” Luas says.

  “Yes,” I say, barely hearing him, as though he was far away. “What do you mean now?”

  “I was talking to you during the presentation,” he says. “When you didn’t respond, I asked Haissem to stop.”

  “Oh...,” I reply, lost, trying to separate my identity as Toby Bowles from my identity as Brek Cuttler. “I’m sorry. It just seems so...so...real, like I’m remembering my own life.”

  “Yes, it is that way, isn’t it?” Luas says. “When Haissem begins again, listen for my voice. At first you’ll hear me speaking through the people in the presentation; what I say will seem out of context. If you fail to respond again, I’ll bring up the circumstances of your disfigurement again to bring you back. Unfortunately, it isn’t possible to instruct you on how to separate yourself from the soul being presented; you must learn this by doing, which is one of the reasons for having you watch.”

  “What other reason is there?” I ask.

  “To prepare you to present souls yourself.”

  10

  * * *

  Luas nodded and Haissem stood again at the center of the Urartu Chamber to continue the presentation of the life of Toby Bowles at the trial of his soul.

  I’m in the parish hall of my church during coffee hour after the service, and I’m seething with rage. “How dare you tell them that!” I whisper to Claire through clenched teeth so no one else will hear. She gives me her stupid I don’t know what you’re talking about look, and I stomp ahead through the parish hall doors, letting them swing back hard against her as she comes through behind. I hope they knock her flat on her ass.

  Alan Bickel smiles at me and sticks out his hand.

  “Mornin’,” I grunt, pushing past him without shaking his hand or making eye contact. The guy’s thirty-five year old, got two kids, and he’s still pumping gas at the Sinclair.

  I walk out into the parking lot, climb into our car, start the engine, and light a cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into my lungs and holding it there with my rage until they both can be contained no longer. I still can’t believe she said it. I exhale loudly, talking to myself:

  “‘I’m sorry, Marion, but money’s tight right now. We just haven’t any extra for the building fund.’”

  How could she? To Paul and Marion Hudson? And there they go now; every year a new Cadillac. From a dry-cleaning store? The guy must be running something on the side or cooking the books. I bend down and pretend not to see them. The rear door of our car opens and Tad and Todd climb in, then Susan and Katie.

  “Dibs on the window,” Tad calls. There’s a big commotion and Tad starts crying. “Dad, Todd hit me and Susan won’t move. I called dibs first.”

  “Knock it off back there or I’ll take off my belt!” I yell. “For chrissake, Tad, you’re the oldest. What are you, nine now? And still cryin’ all the time like you was a baby. If you don’t like what Todd and Susan are doin’, then give ‘em one across the mouth; that’s what I used to do to your Uncle Mike when he crossed me. It’s time you started actin’ like a man, son, and I’m tellin’ you right now you’re playin’ football come August. Period. I don’t want to hear another word about playin’ in no fairy marching band.” I take another drag on my cigarette. “You’re playin’, right Todd old boy?”

  “You bet, dad,” Todd says. “Mr. Detterbeck says he’s startin’ me at linebacker and quarterback.” Even though he’s a full year younger, Todd stands two inches taller than his brother and weighs at least fifteen pounds more.

  “Atta boy,” I tell him.

  Claire slides into the passenger seat beside me. “I really don’t understand why you got so upset,” she says.

  I’m furious. I throw the cigarette out the window, yank the gear selector into drive, and mash the accelerator before she can close the door. We roar out of the parking lot.

  “Toby, for heaven’s sake!” Claire screeches, “I haven’t got the door closed and there’s kids in the car!”

  “No!” I holler over the engine, “There’s a bunch of cryin’ ingrates in this car and a woman who
embarrasses her family in public and don’t even have the sense to know it.” My chest tightens and I feel the veins in my neck swelling. As usual, when I catch Claire she refuses to respond. “You got nothin’ to say? You ain’t got no idea what I’m talkin’ about?”

  “The souls come in through the Urartu passage,” she says, “and wait in Shemaya Station, just like you did, until I come to get them. A presenter is assigned to meet with each postulant before the trial, then they wait in the train station until their case is called and a decision is made. Since they’re not permitted to attend the trial, the presenter must acquire a complete understanding of the choices they’ve made during—”

  “What the hell did you just say?” I ask.

  “Do what you want, Toby!” Claire yells. “Everyday it’s something. I’ve broken one of the invisible rules in your invisible rule book; you’re swearing in front of the kids on Sunday and driving like a maniac; I have nothing more to say.”

  I explode. “‘Money’s tight right now, Marion?’ ‘Toby can’t take care of his family, Marion?’ ‘We barely make ends meet with his job on the railroad, Marion?’ Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at Paul Hudson. But you know why I don’t worry? Because there’s no way Paul Hudson would give up what he’s got for big, ugly thighs like yours.”

  Claire starts crying. “I hate you, Toby!” she screams. “I hate you! I want you out. Just get out and leave us alone.”

  “It’s none of their damn business whether money’s tight!” I yell. “It’s nobody’s business. You got that? Nobody’s. Off they go in their big Caddy to their big country club. I’ll bet they’re Red, too; there’s commies all over the place, Claire, and the niggers are helpin’ ‘em. They’re after regular guys like me; that’s why I ain’t got a good job and never will. Marion Hudson’s laughing at us and you don’t even know it. Don’t you get it? She knows we don’t got extra. That’s why she asked, to hear you say it. That’s how they get their kicks. How can you be so stupid?”

  “Mrs. Hudson’s not like that, daddy,” Susan speaks up from the back seat. “When I stay over with Penny, they always ask about you and mommy and they’re real nice.”

  “I don’t want you kids over there again!” I holler. “Do you hear me? My God, Claire, they even do it to the kids. I can just hear it now: ‘How’s your mother and father, Susan? My, aren’t your shoes old...and that dress. What, they haven’t taken you shopping in Manhattan? Such a shame.’ And that Penny Hudson: I don’t want her comin’ over to our place anymore either. New bikes. New dresses. She’s always got something new. She’s a spoiled brat.”

  I can’t control myself. Embarrassment, jealousy, hatred: they pour out of me as if there’s nothing else inside, as if I am nothing else. I want to give my kids and my wife new things. I want to be respected in the community. I want to live where the Hudsons live and eat where the Hudsons eat. I whip down Greenwood Avenue, barely stopping at the lights.

  When we get home, I call Bob to see if he’ll pick me up early, then I go upstairs and start throwing things in my duffel bag for the week: work lights, flares, two pairs of work pants, some t-shirts, and two pairs of work gloves. Claire stays downstairs with the kids, fixing them lunch, trying to keep them quiet. I take off my dress slacks, shirt, and tie and fold them neatly into the bottom of my bag along with a bottle of Aqua Velva. Sheila likes it when I dress up and wear cologne for her. She thinks I’m an important businessman; I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth. I can’t wait to see her. She’s the only one who understands me. I zip the bag closed and put my Wolverines on top. Claire calls up from the kitchen.

  “Do you want any lunch before you go?” Her voice is cold, emotionless. She’s still upset but prides herself on not showing it in front of the kids. She knows damn well Bob’s on his way over but asks anyway.

  “No. Bob and I’ll grab something on the way to Princeton Junction.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Not ‘til Friday.”

  I carry my things down the stairs. “We’re runnin’ empty dump cars up to Scranton and full ones on to Pittsburgh.”

  Katie toddles into the living room with a coloring book and crayon, her most prized possessions. She’s just eighteen months old. “Daddy, what happened to your right arm?” she asks. “Did you do it because you were mad at your mommy and daddy?”

  “Sure, I’ll color with you, sweetie,” I say, feeling miserable for having yelled and gotten everybody so upset. “Climb up here on my lap.”

  “Brek, do you hear me?”

  “Luas?”

  “Ah, there you are,” he says. “Finally got through, good.”

  My personality splinters in two. Half of me carries on a conversation with Toby Bowles’ daughter; the other half carries on a conversation with Luas. I exist simultaneously in two worlds and two lives.

  “This is a circle, Katie. Can you say circle?” She looks up at me with wide brown eyes and rosy cheeks, melting my heart.

  “Cirsa.”

  “Concentrate on your memories,” Luas says, “Bo, Sarah, your job.”

  I think of Sarah and her crayons, not much younger than Katie, and of Bo, who sometimes yells at me the way Toby did, and my mom and dad. The distance between selves grows until two distinct lives emerge: mine, which has depth, substance, and nuance; and Toby Bowles’ life, which I know well but only episodically. I feel his emotions and see through his eyes, but I understand now that he is not me even though he’s someone I have experienced more intimately and completely than I’ve ever experienced another person before.

  “So,” Luas says, “what do you think of our Mr. Bowles?”

  I can hear Luas but not see him. I see only the Bowles’ living room. It’s as if Luas and I are commenting on a televised sporting event from the press box, eyes focused on the field.

  “I don’t much care for—” I catch myself. “I thought we weren’t allowed to make judgments about other souls.”

  “Well done,” Luas says. “But a little too far. We’re forbidden from making judgments, if you will, not observations. A lawyer may disapprove of the actions of his client but nonetheless remain an advocate for his client’s rights. Wasn’t that so with Alan Fleming?”

  Bob pulls up in front and honks his horn. Toby wraps Katie in his arms and gives her a kiss. He hates saying goodbye, and it’s worse now because of the awful way he’s behaved. Claire, Susan, and Todd approach timidly. Toby wishes he could take it all back, but an apology would be empty and they wouldn’t understand. He kisses Claire tenderly and she responds with a lingering hug, at once absolving him of his crime and, at the same time, wounding him with the generosity of her forgiveness.

  “I’ll bring you all back something nice,” he whispers remorsefully, still convinced material possessions are what they want from him. Todd and Susan give him hugs but Tad stays in the kitchen playing walk-the-dog with his yo-yo, unwilling to forgive his father and muttering goodbye only after his mother orders him to say something. Toby doesn’t know how to handle Tad anymore. “I’ll bring him something special too,” he mumbles to himself, “maybe the cap gun and holster set he’s been wanting.” Toby knows he’s been hard on Tad, but it’s been for his own good: Toby’s father was the same way before he abandoned the family when Toby was eleven. At least Toby hasn’t done that. The horn honks again; Bob’s waiting. Toby waves, picks up his things, and walks out the door.

  “Haissem is re-creating this?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Luas replies. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”

  Nine years later. Toby Bowles is now staggering under the weight of middle age. The regrets of lost youth, the deterioration of his body, the fear of approaching death, the vain search for meaning and reaffirmation—all these things sour his life, making him restless and depressed. His hair has thinned and his worry lines have deepened.

  He walks up to a small garden apartment in Morrisville, New Jersey, letting himself in with the key Bonnie Campbell leaves for hi
m under a loose brick. The apartment is dark. He turns to lock the door as he’s always careful to do, but Bonnie has been waiting and goes quickly for his ears, sending gusts of hot breath into the sensual pockets of his mind. His hand drops from the knob and they move quickly into her darkened bedroom before his eyes can adjust from the glare of the midafternoon sun.

  Bonnie’s robe falls to the shabby gold carpet, revealing a middle-aged body of creases and folds desirable to Toby only because the candlelight is forgiving—and because Bonnie’s attraction to him refutes what he sees of himself in the mirror. The sheets are thrown back and their bodies embrace, fingers and lips uniting all that is opposite, other, forbidden. The delights are exquisite, suspending time. But bliss is fleeting, shattered suddenly by the distinct metal-on-metal click of the front door knob cylinder. Toby bolts upright out of the bed and Bonnie rolls beneath the covers, popping her head out the other side like a groundhog peering from its hole. A dark silhouette fills the doorway to the bedroom.

  “Claire, honey?” Toby says in a voice trembling with remorse, shaken by the overwhelming surge of guilt that has been consuming him during his six month affair with Bonnie Campbell. Yet he’s almost relieved now that it will all finally be over; he’ll be able to confess his crime and beg her forgiveness. The candles on the dresser flicker low in an unseen draft, then brighter in its wake, illuminating tears streaming down the intruder’s face.

  “That’s not Claire!” Bonnie screams, pulling the covers up to her chin. “It’s Tad!”

  Bonnie Campbell had known Tad since he was a little boy; in fact, she had been close friends with Toby’s wife, Tad’s mother—Claire—making the humiliation of the encounter for Toby even more complete than if it were Claire herself. Bonnie owned the only pet shop in the small town, and as Tad grew older he purchased at least one of every creature she sold, climbing the evolutionary chain in step with his ability to care for them: an ant farm at first, then a fish, a lizard, some gerbils and hamsters, a rabbit, cat, and, finally, a dog, a German Shepherd. He even worked in her store after school. Tad knew her son, Josh, who was much younger; he knew her ex-husband, Joe; he had eaten many meals at their home.