The Marriage of Sticks (23 page)

Deadpan, Shumda looked at the dog, then at me. He gave me the smallest possible wink. He looked back at the audience, same deadpan, and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets.

After the dog spoke, gasps and shocked yelps of laughter burst from the audience.

The dog then sat down and adjusted itself until it was comfortable. It continued in the same pleasingly virile voice that was not at all like the ventriloquist’s, “Since you seem displeased with Shumda, I will now take over the show. Master, if you please?”

Shumda bowed deeply first to the audience, then to the dog. It dipped its head as if acknowledging the bow. Then the man in black turned and left the stage.

When he was gone and there was no possible way the ventriloquist could be within fifty feet of the animal, the dog spoke again.

“And now for my next trick, I would ask the young lady—”

Pandemonium. How could the dog speak if the ventriloquist was now off the stage?

The animal waited patiently until the audience quieted. “I would ask the young lady to step to the front of the stage and hold her arms out from her sides.”

I did it. Four feet from the edge, I stopped and slowly lifted my arms. Because I was standing so far forward, I couldn’t see the dog when it spoke again. I looked out over the sea of attentive faces and knew they were looking at me, me, me. I had never been so happy in my life.

“What is your favorite bird?”

“A penguin!” I shouted.

The audience roared and applauded. Their laughter continued until the dog spoke again.

“A formidable bird, certainly; one with great character. But what we need now is a championship flyer. One with wings like an angel, able to cross continents without stopping.”

I licked my lips and thought. “A duck?”

Another gale of laughter.

“A duck is a brilliant choice. So, my dear, close your eyes now and think of flying. It’s daybreak; the sky is the color of peaches and plums. See yourself rising off the earth to join your fellow pintails on the journey south for the winter.”

I closed my eyes and, before I knew it, felt nothing beneath my feet. Looking down, I saw that nothing
was
beneath my feet: I was a foot, then two, five, ten feet above the stage and rising. I was a child and was flying.

As I rose, I began to float out over the audience. Looking down, I saw people with their heads bent back, all of them staring at me in wonder. Mouths open or hands over their mouths, hands to their cheeks, arms pointing up, children bouncing in their seats; a woman’s hat fell off.…All because of me.

Where were my parents? I could not find them in the dark mass of heads below.

I continued to float out until I’d reached the middle of the theater. Once there, I rose even higher. How did the birds do this? How heavy humans were! Gently I rose again. My hands were spread in front of me but not far out—more like I was playing a piano. I wiggled my fingers.

My body stopped as I floated seventy feet above the crowd in the center of the theater. No wires attached to my back, no tricks, nothing but the genuine magic of a talking dog.

Time stopped and there was complete silence in the theater.

“What are you doing? Are you mad?” Below, Shumda marched quickly out onstage, looking up at me and then at the now cowering dalmatian.

“But, Master—”

“How many times have I told you? Dogs cannot do these things! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

Tentative laughter from the audience.

“Bring her down! Immediately!”

But I didn’t want to come down. I wanted to stay weightless for the rest of time while people below looked up and wished they could be me. Staring forever, rapt, at me the angel, the fairy—
I could fly!

“Bring her down!”

I dropped.

Falling, I saw only faces. Horror, surprise, wonder frozen on their faces as they saw me drop straight at them. The faces grew larger. How fast does a child fall? How long does it take till impact? All I remember is fast and slow. And before I was scared, before I could even think to scream, I hit.

And died.

PAINTING HEAVEN

“D
ARLING, ARE YOU ALL
right?”

The words poured slowly into my mind like thick, glutinous sauce. Brown gravy.

With great difficulty I opened my eyes and squinted hard at the first thing I saw. It was awful. Jarring and fragmented, the colors were a bad, gaudy, incomprehensible mix adding up to nothing but mess. If they had been brass instruments, their squawks and squeals would have made me cover my ears and run away.

But as my head cleared, I remembered with a terrible sinking feeling that what was in front of me was mine—I had painted it. I had
been
painting it for months and months, but nothing I did made it better. Nothing.

Maybe that’s why I had been having the blackouts with increasing regularity. Lying on my back longer and longer each day painting the fresco on the ceiling of the church. The church I had connived Tyndall into buying. The fresco that, when finished, was supposed to have convinced the others I was a real painter. Not just everyone’s mistress. Not just the great pair of tits who the famous ones let stay because I was always available. The Arts Fucker, as De Kooning called me to my face. But when I was done, they would see. See that I was far, far better than any of them had ever imagined. My fresco would prove it.

It had begun as such a wonderful idea. And the only reason for continuing to see Lionel Tyndall. Let him screw me to his heart’s content. Make him crazy for me; make myself into his drug. Then when he was hooked, use him. Use his money and connections to get what I really wanted—the respect of the likes of de Kooning and Eleanor Ward, Lee Krasner and Pollock. Yes, even that bastard.

One of the few interesting things Tyndall ever said was about them, the great ones: They had no empty space around them. He was right. My dream was to bring them here and show them what I had accomplished. How good the heaven was I had painted on the ceiling of Lionel Tyndall’s church. The church he bought me out of the deepness of his lust and his pockets.

In a sketchbook, I had written a line from Matisse that became my essential rule: “I tend towards what I feel: toward a kind of ecstasy. And then I find tranquillity.” Since beginning the church project, I had done everything I could to follow my instincts, to “tend towards” what I felt. But sadly what I felt was nowhere near what I had painted. Worse, I could no longer imagine even getting close. No empty spaces around them? There was nothing
but
empty space around—and in—what I had created.

What’s worse, going through life trying to find your passion but never finding it, or
knowing
what you want but no matter how hard you try, never being able to accomplish it? I had wanted to be a painter for fifteen years and had done everything I could to achieve it. But it hadn’t happened, and, horribly, it was beginning to look like it never would.

“Darling? Are you all right?”

Tyndall’s voice sniveled up from below and made me shudder. He didn’t care if I was all right; he wanted me to come down so we could go outside and make love in his car or under a tree or in the water or somewhere. That was our unspoken deal. He bought the abandoned church outside East Hampton and gave me everything I needed to paint it. In return, I was expected to climb down and play with him whenever he called.

But the blackouts I’d been having? Those dangerous spells once or twice a month where everything simply fell away and I came to with no memory of them happening?

“Why don’t you come down and we’ll have some lunch. You’ve been up there since seven this morning.”

I stared at the ceiling and thought about his hands, his breath on my neck, the thin musky smell of his body when he got excited.

I turned on my side to look down at him. As I did, there was a loud sharp crack from below. Alarmed, I tried turning completely over. But all at once there was a second crack, a high
wheee-yow
of scaffold metal bending, and everything collapsed.

I dropped.

The last thing I saw, before a metal bar snapped off the scaffolding and flew through my throat, was one of the faces I had painted on the ceiling.

Screaming. There was screaming all around and not just human. Metal—the scream and grind of metal against metal for seconds, then gone. Nothing breaking or snapping this time, only meeting. Meeting for earsplitting seconds in a fast hot sparking touch and gone. We flew. The car rocketed forward. I opened my eyes again onto bright sunlight after the tunnel’s blackness. We twisted, rose, turned. A fresh gust of screaming from the children in our car. We went up up up, almost stopped, then fell into the intricate loop and swing of the roller-coaster track.

I looked at James. His hair was flattened against his head. Staring straight ahead, he wore a crazy adrenaline smile. As we sped along I kept watching him, trying to find in his face what had been palpable all day but not clear until now. The moment he turned and looked at me, I knew: I no longer loved him.

It was my eighteenth birthday. James had suggested we go to Playland to celebrate. It had been a wonderful day. We were leaving for different universities in two weeks and had never been closer. But now I knew we would not go beyond those two weeks. No matter what we’d said about writing and calling and Christmas vacation isn’t so far away…I no longer loved him.

As the roller coaster curved and fled down the track toward the now visible end of the ride, I let out a sob so strange and violent that it sounded like a bark.

“Do you know what I love about you?”

We sat on a bench eating cotton candy and watching people pass by. I pretended to be busy working a piece of the sweet pink gunk off my fingers and into my mouth. I didn’t want to know what James loved about me, not now, not anymore.

“I feel famous in your arms.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I just feel famous when I’m in your arms. When you’re holding me. Like I mean something. Like I’m important.”

“That’s a really nice thing to say, James.” I couldn’t look at him.

But he took the cotton candy out of my hand and turned my face to his. “It’s true. You don’t know how much I’m going to miss you next year.”

“Me too.”

He nodded, assuming we were thinking the same sad thoughts, and that made me feel even worse. I felt my throat thicken and knew I was about to start crying. So I squeezed my eyes closed as tightly as I could.

Instant silence. It was huge after the roar of the amusement park ride. When I looked, thirty-year-old James sat in the bay window across the Crane’s View bedroom watching me. All of the dolls were gone. It was once again the room I had shared too briefly with Hugh Oakley.

“Welcome back. What’d you learn on your tour?”

“All those women were me. The little girl flying, the painter, me with you at Playland.…All lived different lives but they were the same … person inside. And the only thing they thought about was themselves. They were all total egotists. Were there others? Have I lived other lives, James?”

“Hundreds. They would have shown you more of them but you’re smart—you saw it with the three most recent.”

“And all of the people in them were connected.” I touched my ten fingertips together. “Shumda was Frances’s boyfriend. The little girl went to his show. And the woman painting the fresco was Lolly Adcock, wasn’t she?”

James nodded and said sarcastically, “Who tragically fell to her death just before the world recognized her talent. She died in 1962. Miranda Romanac was born in ’62. The little girl died in 1924. Lolly was born the same year.”

“You were involved in that scandal about the fake Adcock paintings. And Frances owned a real one.”

He pointed at me. “So did Hugh, but didn’t know it. Those four pictures of the same woman he had? Lolly painted them when she was studying at the Art Students League.”

“They’re paintings of the little girl who fell at the theater, aren’t they? What she would have looked like if she’d lived and grown up. Lolly thought she was imagining them. That’s why I felt so strangely about those pictures. Like I knew the woman in them even though I’d never seen her before.”

James winced and drew a short harsh breath. “How do you know that?”

“
How?
For God’s sake, James, what do you think I just went through? What do you think all this is all about? Don’t play games. I thought you were here to help me.”

“No, you’re here to help me. Miranda. You’re here to get me the fuck out! I’m not here for you—I’m here for
me.
Let me go free, please! I’ve done everything I can. I’ve shown you what I know. You knew about those paintings; you knew who the subject was. I didn’t. Don’t you see? I’m done. I’ve given you everything I’ve got. So let me go now.
Free me!
”

“Why is all this happening to me now? Why suddenly now?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Where is Hugh now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who am I?”

Leaping up, he started toward me, furious. “I don’t know! I’m here because I was supposed to tell you what I knew. What I know is, you’re reincarnated. Everything in all of the lives you have lived is interconnected. Everything. And each time you’ve lived you cared only for yourself. The girl in the theater was a bratty, selfish kid. Lolly Adcock used people like toilet paper. You…Look what you did to me, even after you knew you didn’t care anymore. And Doug Auerbach. The guy with the video camera who came into your store and hit you. You broke up Hugh’s marriage because you were selfish and you wanted him…Always
you first,
no matter what.”

“Why did they make you come for me? Who are
they
?”

“Miranda? You all right in there?” McCabe’s voice through the door made both of us turn. James gestured toward it.

“Your friend’s waiting.”

“Who are they, James? Just tell me that.”

Lifting his chin, he slowly twisted his head to one side, like a confused dog.

“Miranda, open up!”