American Elsewhere (64 page)

But it would be so abominably cruel, wouldn’t it, she thinks as she coughs and forges forward into the smoking room, for her little boy to have hung on for so long, with no sign of progress, and then to have it all end in a bolt of lightning? Could the world really be this unfeeling?

Yet as the smoke begins to clear, she sees an amazing sight.

Michael’s room is completely black—the walls, floor, desk, and picture frames have all been blacked out as if someone has come through and painstakingly given everything three or four layers of black spray paint. Yet Michael is completely untouched: his blanket, mattress, and pillows are fried beyond recognition, but her little boy, still dressed in his rabbit pajamas, is lying there safe and sound.

And more: he is awake, and sitting up.

“Oh my God,” mutters Mary. “My God—Michael?”

Michael is looking down at himself, probing his chest. He even unbuttons his shirt, and inspects the skin below it, as if surprised to find it’s whole. Then he looks up and stares around himself, and in a voice totally unlike the one he had before—like he’s trying to speak in a baritone register—he slowly says, “Well. This is very interesting.”

She rushes to him and takes him by the shoulders. “You’re all right? You’re awake? You’re awake!” She feels his limbs and torso, checking for injuries, which he seems to find quite startling. “You’re here! You’ve come back to me! My God, it’s a miracle!”

Michael clears his throat, and moves to push a pair of glasses up his nose, but the glasses are not there. “Madam,” he says, “I believe there has been a misunderstanding.” He gently takes her hands and pushes them away.

“What is it?” she asks. “M-Michael?”

“Not… quite,” he says. He looks at his hands, then looks around himself. He sighs. When he looks back at her, there is a fluttering at the edges and backs of his eyes. “It is possible I have landed myself in a very awkward situation,” he says to her.

Mona’s feet are beginning to hurt when the canyon curls around and she sees something different from more rock walls: the ground slopes down and widens a little until it disappears into a thick, cotton-white mist that is utterly impenetrable to the eye. It is completely unnatural, of course: this place doesn’t see enough moisture to make the ground damp, let alone produce a San Francisco–style fog. Its surface seems to catch the moonlight and glow, just slightly.

Mona has never seen anything like it. She remembers what Parson said:
He is more like Mother than I am. Than any of us is.
Her heart begins beating a little faster. She finds it hard to believe that she’s here, that she’s doing this.

Gracie stops. “This is it.”

“Yeah, it sure looks like it,” says Mona. She stares into the mist for a while. “So… what is it?”

“That’s where he is.” She nods toward the mist.

“Okay. Lead the way.”

Gracie looks at Mona, smiles sadly, and shakes her head.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” says Mona. “I’ve got to go in there
alone
? Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Well, I… I didn’t want you to be mad at me.”

“Well I’m mad now!” says Mona. “Christ! Do I have to leave my gun here?”

“Oh,” says Gracie thoughtfully. “Hm. He didn’t mention that. I don’t think he cares.”

Mona rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms. “Jesus Christ.”

“I guess you know what it’s like now,” says Gracie.

“What do you mean?”

“What it’s like living here,” says Gracie. She turns to stare back into the mist, her pale, sad face lit by the pink glow. “We don’t get to choose where to go, what to do. Some think we do—some
want
to think we do. But one way or another, we’re told.”

Mona looks at her. She suddenly realizes that this pale little slip of a girl, with her moony eyes and skinny wrists, has probably seen and dealt with worse things than she could ever imagine.

“It’s not right,” she says.

Gracie just shrugs—
What does that have to do with anything?
“I told you not to stay.”

“You did?” asks Mona.

“Yeah. On the phone.”

“Oh. That
was
you.”

“Yeah. Bunch of good that did, huh?” She
tut
s. “I told
him
what I’d done, and he said it wouldn’t matter. He said you’d stay. And he was right.”

Mona wishes she would stop talking about this kind of thing. “Will you wait for me?” she asks.

“Sure. I don’t have anything else to do.”

“It might be a while. I don’t know how long this will take.”

Gracie smiles indulgently. “Do you really think that time in there works the same way as it does out here?”

“Shit,” she says. “Stop telling me this stuff.” Then she grabs the strap of her rifle to steady it and descends into the mist.

Though the mist looked like a sea of cotton balls on the outside, on the inside it’s a soft, chilly veil. Mona knows there are no lights outside the mist except for the stars and the moon, but light is filtering through from somewhere, like there are floodlights up above her or at the end
of the mist. And she knows the canyon was tiny—she was just in the damn thing, after all—so it should probably end in a tight little cul-de-sac. Yet she feels like she’s walking across a huge field: this place is perfectly flat, with no walls in sight, and she gets the strong impression that it’s just going to keep on going.

“Hello?” says Mona.

But, of course, there’s nothing.

Then there is a fluting sound in the mist, very soft. Mona thinks, then wanders in its direction. When she sees the lights, she stops.

The lights are small, round, and golden, like little glowing orbs hanging in the mist. It’s hard to tell in this fog, but it looks like they’re about a hundred yards away. What’s odd about them is that the lights form a large, perfect rectangle, hovering about a dozen feet off the ground in four straight strings. She’s not approaching the lights head-on, but from the side, so her perspective’s a little off, yet she’s sure that’s what she’s seeing.

As she takes another step forward, her toe bumps something. She looks down, and sees she almost stepped on a small cardboard box. On the box is a rather plain red bow with a tag that reads

FOR MONA

—I HOPE YOU ENJOY THE SHOW!

She stoops, picks it up, and hesitates—because after all she’s had some bad experiences with boxes in this town—but then throws caution to the wind, and opens it.

Inside it is a single ticket, like the kind you win at an arcade or a raffle. It reads
ADMITS ONE
, and on the side of it is a number: 00001.

Still looking at the ticket, she keeps walking forward. The rectangle of lights gets closer and closer, and as it does she begins to see letters spelling something out inside the rectangle in big, black capitals.

It’s not just a rectangle, but a sign, like a marquee. And it’s mounted on the front of a building.

Mona stops. Though there are no roads here, no sidewalks, nor any sign of civilization at all in this mist, she is now standing before a large, red-brick, 1930s-style cinema, with velvet ropes, a box office with old glass windows, and a huge overhanging marquee, whose letters read:
AN AMERICAN IN PARIS
.

“Um,” says Mona.

She looks down at the ticket, then up at the theater.

I do not know how he will choose to present himself
, Parson said.
He has never been… orthodox.

She walks to the doors of the theater and tries to open one. It’s locked. She looks to the left, and sees a tall ticket box there, but of course there’s no usher.

Mona looks back up at the marquee and thinks. Then she walks over to the ticket box and slides her ticket into the slot. As soon as she does, there’s an audible
pop
as all the doors unlock.

She shakes her head, opens the doors, and walks in.

The theater lobby is plush and decadent: the walls are carved wood painted red, and the carpet is a rich, floral pattern. It is also totally empty: there is no one at the snack bar or the ticket box, no one before any of the doors. She hears the muted rumblings of a movie already playing somewhere in the building. The air is heavy with the smells of buttered popcorn and cigarette smoke. She walks by the snack bar, which is well stocked: some of the pretzels look particularly appetizing. She has to remind herself that they may not be real, and that if they are real, they are nothing she needs to ingest.

She goes to the theater doors, opens them, and walks in.

An American in Paris
is already playing. Gene Kelly is arriving at some fancy penthouse, dressed in a gray suit and dark tie. He looks chipper and endearingly smug in a way that only Gene Kelly can manage.

Mona looks around the theater. It’s totally empty, nothing but rows and rows of empty seats bathed in the light of the screen. She looks up at the projection booth, but sees no one there: just the blinking, frigid eye of the projector. There are curtains on both sides of the
movie screen, but nothing really behind them: all they conceal is bare brick.

She climbs the stairs and takes a seat in the direct middle of the theater. She sets her rifle in the seat next to her. She keeps looking around, expecting some shadowy figure to sidle in and sit behind her and murmur hushed warnings into her ear, like they do in the movies. But nothing happens. It’s just her and
An American in Paris
.

She watches as Gene Kelly charmingly tries to fend off the advances of a handsome, older blond woman. Mona’s seen this before, and she recognizes the woman, but she can’t remember her name: it’s foreign, or something. The woman is wearing an absurd white dress, one that attempts to reveal about as much of her tits as they’d allow back then. Kelly cleverly comments on this, as he should, all gleaming teeth and crinkled eyes, but the woman parries every comment, growing more forward and aggressive each time, which makes Kelly more and more uncomfortable.

Kelly breaks away from his pursuer, and launches into an angsty but charming monologue about love: “It’s always elusive, isn’t it?” he begins.

“Sometimes everything feels elusive,” purrs the older woman.

“You feel like you have it. You feel like you’re there. But then you look up and—
poof
—it was all a dream.”

“Such a sad dream,” says the older woman, maneuvering in her chair so a lot, if not all, of her leg shows.

Mona remembers this now. He’s in love with some other woman, but she’s married, or something like that, and this older gal is all over him, but he’s not into her. She wonders if she’s already missed that big ballet scene.

“What we want is just at our fingertips, but we can’t grasp it.” He stretches his arm out toward the camera, eyes theatrically brimming with anguish.

“
I
could grasp it,” says the woman, smiling cunningly.

“No, you can’t,” says Kelly. “No one can. That’s what dreams are, aren’t they? It’s a sucker’s game. They aren’t real, but we
feel
they’re real. And so we act in very real ways, and often regret it.”

The woman produces a cigarette, complete with an ornate black cigarette holder, and lights it in a manner that is positively lewd. “And do
you
regret it?”

“Regret what, specifically?” asks Kelly.

“Leaving.”

“Leaving? No,” says Kelly. He tilts his head, and smiles a little wistfully. “And yes.”

“Really? How can you not regret leaving with every fiber of your being?”

“Were things really better there?” he asks. “Were we all really that much happier?”

“Perhaps,” she says. “You were treated as kings.”

“Kings,” says Kelly. “Queens. Gods.”

“Isn’t that all anyone would ever want?” asks the woman.

“Maybe,” he says, indifferent. “I was told we fled due to danger—everything was falling apart, our world could no longer bear our size, our numbers. The whispers were always vague, always anxious. She wouldn’t tell me much more than that. Just that we had to go, go, and never look back. Now, I’m not sure if I care.” He sits down on the floor at the woman’s feet, chin on his fist, troubled. Delighted, the woman begins running her fingers through his hair. Kelly doesn’t even notice.

Mona frowns. She doesn’t remember him doing that. Wasn’t this a funny scene? And isn’t he supposed to be in love with someone else?

“If you care?” asks the older woman.

“If I care if we were ever really in danger. We’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

“But if you weren’t in danger, and if you could go back, would you?” she asks him.

“Me?” Kelly’s cleverer-than-you grin blooms to occupy half his face. “Oh, no,” he says, and leans back, hands behind his head. “I’m happy here. Here, I’m living the dream.”

“But I thought you said dreams never came true!”

“No, they don’t,” admits Kelly. “But sometimes you can trick yourself into thinking they have. Which is almost good enough.”

“As good as the way the ruined moon shone on the spires of Tridyalith?” asks the woman.

Kelly’s grin turns both sardonic and a little weary, as if he is hearing an argument he’s heard far too often before.

“Is it better than the long lakes of Dam-Uual,” she asks, “where the weaker children could not determine where the buildings ended and the skies began, and only the most powerful could perceive the underwater lights glimmering in the courtyard waters? Do you remember? Were those lights not beautiful to you?”

“As beautiful as the red sun filtering through the tunnels in the ice caps at Yzchintre,” says Kelly. “It would filter through the blue ice, turning a pale green, and seep down to where we slept in pools underground, listening to the tones and songs of the enslaved.”

“A long sleep,” says the woman.

“Mmm,” Kelly says, “not
too
long.”

Mona slowly sits up. Has First altered the movie for her? Is there a message in this? It doesn’t seem clear yet…

“Would you say that your dream is better than the diamond rains on the moon of Hyuin Ta’al?” asks the older woman. “Do you remember how they piled in the craters before melting and making silver rivers in the dark?”