<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 2 Don't Look Back Anton woke in a jumble of tossed sheets. They were twisted damply around his legs, and it seemed that he'd been sweating. He sat up abruptly and rubbed his eyes. He couldn't remember his dream. He scratched his chest and curled his toes, sniffing himself delicately because he liked the smell. It reminded him of something: his physical presence in the world, in fact. From the light in the room, he could tell that it was late. His parents were already at work, and he was late for school. He looked around him to get his bearings. There were the trophies he'd won at athletic events, model rockets from his pyromaniac phase, the turtle he'd had since second grade. The wall above his bed was covered in images: Arthur Rimbaud, Andy Warhol, Patti Smith, Malcolm X. There were snapshots of him frolicking down by the river, naked and covered in mud, and a poster of a sweating cop with a gun in his mouth, captioned, "MAKE ME COME." There were his high school textbooks, his CDs, his bass and amp. He was a small-town boy like any other, living amid cornfields and thick, silent snow. He was a gifted student who didn't care about school, a natural athlete who hated the discipline of sports. Because he was graceful and talented, life so far had been easy for him. Too easy, perhaps, which was the origin in him of a certain spirit of rebellion. He'd grown up in this room, but now it was stifling him. He got up and threw open the window. It was early spring. The earth was no longer frozen, but the air was quite cold. The snow had melted away in places to reveal patches of soil, still covered in last year's leaves. Aroused by the sudden chill, he felt a tingling pressure throughout his body left over from sleep. A beam of sunlight struck him below his left nipple, slanting across his stomach before ricocheting to the carpet. Following its path, his eyes came to rest on his duffelbag. He frowned for an instant, then his expression resolved. Even as he was getting dressed, pulling on his pants and socks, he began to pack. He gathered the things he needed most, T-shirts and jeans, his favorite sweater, his sleeping bag, his journals, tapes of his music. From the wall he took a sketch of him by Timmins, slipping it carefully into a notebook to protect it. He took a book of poetry that Becky had given him to read. He went into the bathroom and glanced in the mirror, examining his teeth. He ran wet fingers through his hair, splashed water on his face and dried it with a towel. Taking the towel and a few other things he needed, he returned to his room to finish packing. Slinging his duffelbag over his shoulder, he picked up his bass and amp and walked down the hall to the kitchen. He made himself a sandwich and left a note. Thanks for the fine upbringing. Sorry to disappear like this, but it's the only way. I've got things to do, so why wait? If people ask about me, tell them not to worry. I know what I'm doing. Leaving his keys on the table, he went onto the back porch and locked the door behind him. Striding fiercely, kicking the ground, he walked around the house to the street. The monotony of the world he lived in, which had always repelled him, now seemed like a veil he could pierce easily. "I won't look back," he said aloud, and he didn't. He was afraid it would curse him, forcing him one day to return here. • • • The downtown bus station seemed frozen in time, as if the same dust had been hanging in the air for decades. The agent was a grizzled old man with a crew cut, a thick, square face, and green eye shades clipped to half glasses that sat low on his fleshy nose. A veteran of the Korean War, he was a victim now of cancers caused by chemicals he'd worked with in the past. He stood behind the high counter flipping through a book of schedules with his thumb, which he licked to turn the pages. When the bell over the door rang, he looked up. "What can I do for you, young man?" he called out. Anton stepped to the counter. "I want to go west." The man adjusted his glasses with a forefinger. "All the way west," Anton told him. "Until the road stops." The man referred to his schedule book, looking up occasionally. "Let's see. All the buses west from here stop in Omaha. From there you can go to Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland or Seattle." He rested his hand with finality on the thick book. "That's where the road stops, those four places. After that's the ocean." Anton hesitated. "Portland sounds good. Is there much of a music scene there?" The man frowned. "I wouldn't know. I'm not the one to ask." He returned to his book, turning the pages one at a time until he reached the schedule for Portland. Running his finger down the list, he looked again at Anton. "When do you want to leave?" Anton indicated his bags. "I'm ready now." The man began writing out a ticket, marking each of the transfers in a laborious scrawl. "Next bus comes through here at 12:50. That's two hours from now. Change in Omaha, change again in Salt Lake City. You'll be in Portland in three days. This ticket one way?" He looked over his glasses. Anton responded with a nod. The man finished writing and handed him the ticket. "Bus leaves from the street in front of the station. Check your bags underneath. I know it's none of my business, son," he said as Anton was about to leave. Anton stuffed the ticket into his jeans and eyed the man warily. "It's none of my business, son, but where are you off to in such a hurry? There's nothing but trouble in the world today. Running away won't solve anything. You meet the same problems wherever you go." Anton had the urge to lash out at the suspended dust and flimsy setup of this place, at everything that stood in his way. He didn't know why he was leaving, and this bothered him. There was no crisis in his life. Nothing had changed for him from one day to the next. He'd simply awakened from his dream with an overpowering desire to leave. He stifled his confusion with a shrug. "I'm not running, I'm looking. All I know is, it's time for something to happen." The man offered him a meaty handshake and wished him well. Anton scooted away, making the bell over the door ring again. Out in the bright sun, he sat on his duffelbag and ate the sandwich he'd brought with him. He looked alternately up at the sky or down at his notebook, repeating lyrics under his breath until the bus came. He was one of a handful of people on the bus. He sat by the window, watching a lonely stretch of road until he fell asleep. He dreamed he was on a bus going incredibly fast, well past the speed of light. Even so, it would take him just as long to reach his destination, because the excessive speed had put him into an alternate dimension where distances, too, stretched towards infinity. So it amounted to the same thing: the journey to Portland would take three days. • • • The bus was fuller now. Beside him sat a minister in a black turtleneck and a dark sport coat, temples dusted with gray. He'd just asked Anton a question. "Are you a believer?" Anton laughed. "I'm not exactly a churchgoer." "But you're a Christian?" "Sure, Christ is cool. He died for us, right?" "Then let me tell you something that may surprise you. Going to church isn't what makes us Christian. The important thing is faith. Some people think all you have to do is show up in God's House, and He takes care of the rest. That's not so. You've got to know in your heart that you're going to Heaven. You seem like a smart young man—" "Now hold on, there!" "I knew a man once. He was in church every Sunday, but he was a sinner with a heart of ice. Finally, as he lay dying, he realized he was far from the Lord. So he called me to his side and said, 'Father.' He whispered in my ear. 'Pray for me, Father, I'm not a believer.' So I held his hand and prayed he'd go to Heaven." Anton's attention had wandered. He was lost in a scrutiny of the man's face, a maze of tiny fissures and pores. Noticing this, the minister stopped. Anton gave him a polite smile. "But the heavens were brass that day," the minister concluded. "Sometimes you just know. The gates were closed to that man." • • • He stood at the center of a vast expanse of linoleum, waiting for the connecting bus. He'd only been to Omaha a couple of times in his life, so he was curious about everything around him. He looked first one way, then another, wondering what to do next. His eyes scanned the pay TVs that were molded into the plastic seats of the waiting area. Each console had "TV" embossed on its back in big letters. Several of them were being used, one by a pregnant woman. "Pregnant women shouldn't watch TV," he thought angrily. "It's worse than crack." Leaving his things in the middle of the floor, he walked around the lobby with his hands in his pockets. All the refuse of the world was collected there: single mothers with their squalling brats, underfed farm boys off to their first real factory jobs, older men from Chicago in cheap brown leisure suits. Passing a pay phone, his eyes stuck there a moment. Should he call Becky? He felt the urge to explain himself, but he couldn't do it, not yet. Maybe once he'd gotten to Portland, formed a band, and had some success. For now, he'd never be able to say why he was on his way to a strange city, with only enough money in his pocket to last a month. Suddenly he felt Timmins' presence close by as if they were in the same room. He was used to this, but it had never happened before while they were so far apart. Timmins was asleep, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open. His characteristic smell of milk and nutmeg filled the air. Anton could hear him breathing. He stirred slightly and opened his eyes, realizing Anton was there. "I left home!" Anton blurted. "I'm sorry. I'm in Omaha, on my way west." A man turned to stare at him, and he realized he was talking out loud. This broke the connection, and the sounds of the station rushed over him in full force. A child screamed, a man called his woman a whore. He felt desolate and alone. Collecting his things, he went into a diner off the lobby, sat at the counter, and ordered a patty melt sandwich. The waitress pointed to his bass, which he'd set next to his stool. "Do you play?" "Not really. It's more of a prop." He didn't feel like talking. He ate in silence, brooding and proud. He was thinking, "I've launched myself into the unknown like a flaming arrow." Someone touched his arm and he turned. A portly, middle-aged gentleman stood beside him, with an owlish face and eyebrows that came to points in the middle, like circumflexes. He was leaking a smell of stale sweat mixed with Ivory Soap. "Do you mind if I join you?" the man said. Anton did mind, but the man had already shifted himself onto the next stool. As his body hit the seat, he let out a sharp burst of air as if he'd been punched. He placed his order and stared intently at Anton, eyebrows twitching. "May I ask your destination?" "Portland," Anton answered with his mouth full. He swallowed his food. "I've decided to quit school and spend the rest of my life in motion." The man gave him an odd look. "As it happens, I'm going to Portland myself. A beautiful city, I'm told. Not like Paris or Amsterdam, of course, but blessed with a beautiful setting. If you like, we can keep each other company on the trip." Anton blinked but said nothing. By now, the man had received his meal and was digging into it with gusto. After a time he tried again. "To speak truthfully, young man—may I ask your name?" "Anton." "To speak truthfully, Anton, your remark about leaving school has cut me to the quick. You see, I'm a professor myself. As such, I believe deeply in the value of teaching." "You look like a professor." "Bite your tongue. I suppose the teachers at your school weren't to your liking? They didn't know how to speak to a young man of your intelligence?" Anton flushed. He hated to have his intelligence pointed out in this way. "Or perhaps you imagine that by leaving school now, you can begin learning directly from the School of Life. You're impatient to proceed—" "That's it." "But are you sure it's advisable? Perhaps you underestimate the risks." The professor leaned forward, touching his arm. "Experience will come soon enough. But first you must form your intelligence, discipline your instincts, choose a métier, a path." "That's what I'm doing!" Anton said without thinking. "I'm a musician. I'm going to Portland to play music. That's a métier, right?" But despite himself, he shared the man's doubts. He stared down morosely at his plate. The remains of his meal were an alien landscape he wanted to explore. "I'll admit one thing, though. I haven't thought it all through. I woke up this morning and got on the bus, that's all." He finished his meal in silence, left some money on the counter, and stood up. He could feel the professor's eyes on him as he walked away. On the bus, he sat as far away as he could from anyone else, but when the professor climbed on a few minutes later, he came straight for Anton, squeezing his vast bulk into the seat across the aisle. "I'm writing a book about people like you," the professor said once the bus was in motion. "The young men I've known over the years. With your permission, I'd like to put you in it." Anton scowled at him. "Why?" "Because you're a perfect example! It's a survey, if you will, of young men's ambitions and the hardships they face in realizing those ambitions. It explains the methods I use for teaching such troubled young men. I have considerable experience in the field, you know." Anton yawned. "What do you teach, exactly?" The professor coughed. "At present, I am unemployed. That's something you'll learn, too, in your School of Life. Fortunately, teaching is more than a job for me, it's a vocation. I've found I can be more effective without a lot of barriers between me and my students." "So this is your classroom? Are you teaching me now?" "All teaching is personal, don't you agree? But before I can teach you, I need to get to know you better. Tell me why you left home. Are you having trouble with your family?" "Not really." "Are there problems at school? Perhaps you're too independent for the authorities there?" Anton laughed. "They put up with me anyway." The professor leaned in, insinuating. "Is there a young woman in the picture?" "No girl problems, no family problems. I'm a well-adjusted kid." The professor's eyebrows began twitching. "No one leaves home without a reason. I don't mean to be presumptuous, but opening up would be good for you. Confiding in someone is the first step to recovery." "Recovery from what?" Anton had figured out the professor's method. He impressed young people with his knowing air and got them to spill their secrets, but to Anton he was a bore. Worse, he was an bore who fed on other peoples' insecurities. "Do you really think you can help me? I'm not looking for help. I'm going to Portland to play music. I'm not riding around on buses looking for some savior or personality coach." The professor recoiled, eyebrows still twitching. "You're a very facetious young man." Anton reached for the book Becky had given him, and deliberately buried himself in it until he fell asleep. • • • The approach to Portland was magnificent. For the last couple of hours the highway ran along the river, which was immensely wide and wet. They picked up speed because they were running late, and Anton felt that the speed of the bus was mirroring his anxiety to arrive. As they came into the city there was a succession of bridges: railroad trestles, suspension bridges, modern concrete spans. There were office buildings, factories and ships. He stepped from the bus, bleary-eyed and rumpled from the long trip. With his white T-shirt, jeans and spiky hair, he felt like an Army cadet on leave. All he needed was a tattoo: two cherries and the name of his hometown sweetheart. "I won't keep this look for long," he reassured himself, "but innocence has its advantages." He waited with the other passengers as the bags were unloaded, then he took his things from the cart and went inside. He crossed the lobby anxiously, shading his eyes, as if expecting to see someone he knew. There was only an old man with a floor mop, making his third or fourth pass over the smooth, glossy surface. Even the tiresome professor, who had avoided him ever since he'd made his remarks, was nowhere to be seen. Coming out of the station into the sunshine, he put down his duffelbag and fished out a cigarette. He lit it with both hands, took a drag and looked around him. He found himself among prostitutes, winos, and crack dealers: all the assorted lowlife of his new milieu. He shuddered, but at the same time he was fascinated. "At least they're more interesting than the people I left behind, who talk about virtue because they don't have the imagination for anything else." He remembered his aunt, cranky and religious, warning him about life in the city. "God forbid you should visit the world's fleshpots! Those people live in darkness and filth. They've abandoned their families and their decency. If you offer them a hand, they'll cut it off." Once he'd taken in his surroundings, he headed off in search of a hotel. There weren't many people on the street: a couple of punks with a cheap tape player, an old man coming out of a hardware store with something in a paper bag, a drunk muttering to himself in a boarded-up doorway. The drunk looked up as Anton passed. "Howdy, sailor, how's the weather?" "Howdy, Cap'n. Is this the road to Portland?" The man glared at him with sudden hostility. "What's it to you, punk, can't you see I'm busy?" He returned to his muttering. Anton walked another couple of blocks, stopping in front of an old hotel that had once been respectable. The shabby brick building dated from his grandparents' era. The bottom floor was taken up with a laundromat, a karate school, and a place that sold office furniture. The ancient neon sign, no longer in operation, spelled out "ELDORADO" down the wall, but over the door it said, "Windsor Hotel—Transients, Weekly Rates." He went in, mounting the long, steep stairs. On the upper landing was a small window, behind which sat a sullen, unkempt man of about thirty, wearing an expression of bored malice. He sat in a cramped space for hours on end, eyes glued to a little TV. Anton waved a hand in front of his face to get his attention. "Need a room?" the man said. Anton nodded. He looked Anton over. "New in town?" Anton gave a boyish grin. "I'm from Iowa." "Well, you've come to the right place. This here's our city's pree-me-aire tourist hotel. Seventy bucks a week, cash up front." He shoved his fist under the iron bars for the money. "No visitors in your room at any time. No drugs, no booze," he recited as Anton counted out the cash. "No music in the room after 10:00 p.m. I see you're a musician?" He indicated Anton's bass. Anton nodded. "You don't mean to play that thing in your room, do you? Well, don't. We got people here who work for a living, believe it or not." He pushed a key under the grate. "Number 34, up the stairs and to the right. Enjoy your stay!" he added with a nasty chuckle. He turned back to the TV and was instantly absorbed in it. Anton unlocked the door and pushed it open. The room was tiny, with a window overlooking the air shaft. He could hear noises within the building, and more distantly, the sound of traffic. The bed was a metal cot with springs, covered by a thin mattress. There was a desk whose wood-grain formica had worn down in places to a smooth caramel color. Near the window was a radiator that had been repainted many times, and was once again blistered and flaking. Inside the door was a metal bar with a thin white towel. On the wall over the bed hung a print of an unshaven, sad-faced clown. Bright patches covered his clothes and umbrella. "The patches are what make it comical," Anton thought glumly. He tossed his duffelbag on the bed and sat for a while, chin propped in his hands. Then he took out some paper, went to the desk and began to write. Dear Becky, I just got to Portland. I'm at a cheap hotel called the Windsor. I don't really know what I'm doing here yet, but I hope to find a place to play my music. Tell Mom and Dad I'm okay. They shouldn't worry. So far, everything's fine. Please don't tell them where I am. Don't even tell them what city I'm in. Just say you don't know. I don't want them to come looking for me. It's time to find out what my life is for. He underlined this twice. Tomorrow I'm going to look for a job. I don't know anyone here, so I can only depend on myself. I'm sorry I left without telling you. I didn't tell anyone, I just woke up and it was time to go. I think all the time about Timmins.... He crossed this out, writing instead, I think about you and Timmins.... He crossed this out, too. I feel like Timmins is trying to talk to me, trying to tell me something about why I came here. He took the whole letter, crumpled it into a ball and threw it in the garbage. He sat for a long time staring out the window, watching it get dark. After a while, he reached into his cigarette pack and pulled out a joint. He lit it and smoked it slowly, taking his time because it was the only one. He opened the window and stood there, blowing smoke into the air shaft. Little by little he rose to a level of peace and exaltation, in which the sounds around him seemed to grow quiet or become continuous, and the outlines of his body began to blur. He noticed that the air had grown cold. He shut the window and sat down again at the desk. • • • He remembered a party he'd been to a few months back, at the home of an older girl named Maria. Maria was a dark-complected Italian, which made her seem exotic in rural Iowa. Perhaps for that reason, her parties had a reputation for being a cut above the rest. Coming down the steps of his high school one day, he'd gone through his usual routine, running a hand through his hair, turning to spit on the sidewalk, reaching in his back pocket for a cigarette. As he stood on the corner lighting up, a couple of girls he knew walked by. He looked at them appreciatively, inhaling. "Are you coming to the party tonight?" Melissa called to him. "What party?" "At Maria's." "We're gonna get drunk off our asses," Debbie put in. "Maybe," he shrugged. "I got work to do." "See ya, Anton." The girls crossed the street. He wandered through downtown, past a drug store, an insurance agency, a barber shop. He found a convenient wall and stood against it, smoking. He pulled a harmonica from his back pocket and played it a little, halfheartedly. Before long a car drove up. Because he was daydreaming, the sudden horn blast startled him. "Are you coming?" yelled Chris from the passenger window. Chris was the keyboard player from his band. "I don't take rides from strangers." "Get in, fool," said Pete the drummer, who was driving. He wanted to make them wait a while longer. "I think I'm gonna stand against this wall some more. Why not come over here and join me?" Finally he shoved off with his shoulders and got in the car. Once their rehearsal was over, Pete tagged along with him to Maria's party. To his surprise Timmins was there too, on the other side of the room. He was sitting alone, drinking a beer and scowling. They were listening to Dark Side of the Moon. "There's Timmins," said Anton, pointing him out. "Oh, yeah?" Pete looked. "Yeah. What's he doing here?" Anton shrugged. "Timmins doesn't go to parties," Pete told him. "Well, I guess he does, sometimes." Anton took out some weed and began to roll a joint. "Timmins hasn't been to class in a few days." "Really? He's skipping?" "He showed up for Mrs. Linden's class once. Told her he's working on a project, which is why he can't come in more often." "Mrs. Linden?" She was the art teacher. "Yeah." "Maybe he's in love with her." Anton finished the joint and licked it closed. "Let's ask." He tried to get Timmins' attention. "Timmins." Some people were blocking his view. "Timmins," he said again, louder this time. Timmins looked over, and Anton beckoned him with the joint. Timmins raised an eyebrow and got up. Anton kept the joint visible until he came over and took it. He ran it under his nose and gave it back, nodding. He sat down on the floor with his beer, which was almost gone. Anton lit the joint, made sure it was burning smoothly, and handed it to him. He put it to his mouth, inhaled, smiled, and handed it to Pete. Pete took a hit while watching Timmins, who was still smiling. Pete started to laugh, and smoke came out of his mouth. Handing the joint back to Anton, he suddenly asked Timmins, "Are you in love with Mrs. Linden?" "Huh?" said Timmins, exhaling. "You only came to class once in the last few days, and that was to see Mrs. Linden. You told her you were sorry you couldn't come in more often." "She's helping me with my project." Timmins turned to Anton. "Have you been talking to him about me?" Anton handed him the joint again. "Only what he said. You know Pete, don't you? You were in Mr. Webster's class together." Smoke trickling from his nostrils, Timmins handed the joint to Pete. "Yeah. Not a great place to meet people." "So what's your project about, anyway?" said Anton. "The one that's kept you out of school for so long." "You know, paintings." "I know, but what?" "I made a painting of a girl in a dress. The same girl who drowned in the river in my dream. Only in the painting, it was before she was drowned. She was wearing a nice dress like in a portrait." "You finished the painting?" "Yep." "And here you are." "Something like that." They were still passing the joint, but it was almost gone. "This is good stuff, where'd you get it?" Timmins asked Anton. "When I was in Mexico I smoked stuff almost this good, but not quite." "You were in Mexico?" said Pete in surprise. Timmins grinned. "In my dreams." Pete was annoyed. "You still haven't answered my first question." "Which was?" "Are you in love with Mrs. Linden?" "Of course not! She's a teacher." "Are you in love with Maria, then?" Pete indicated their hostess, who was the ultimate sex symbol for the boys in town. Maria glanced over at them, wiggling her fingers, flashing her fine white teeth. "Come on, stop picking on him," said Anton. "Timmins is sensitive." "I'm not 'sensitive.'" "But you are sensitive!" "I'm sensitive, but not that way." "Are you in love with Maria?" Pete persisted. "Are you in love with anyone?" "I'm in love with the girl in the painting," Timmins said. "Mrs. Linden is helping me with some of the details." "Like what?" "Like what kind of dress she's wearing. I could see it, but not clearly. Mrs. Linden helped me find the dress I was looking for." "She gave you a dress?" "If you want, you can see the painting," Timmins said in exasperation. Pete glanced at Anton, who gave a sign of approval. "I'd like to." • • • In his room at the Windsor, Anton searched through his duffelbag until he found the sketch of him that Timmins had made. He switched on the desk lamp and sat there studying it. It was a conventional portrait, except that part of his jaw was smeary and his eyes had a startled look. He smoothed out the paper, tracing the lines with his finger, and seemed to lapse into a daydream. While in this state, he started a sketch of his own in his notebook. He quickly became frustrated, and erased it with a series of rapid, heavy lines. Meanwhile, Timmins was sitting crosslegged on the floor of his room in Iowa, scribbling on a pad of paper. Sensing that Anton wanted to communicate, he looked up. His eyes were focused on the spot where Anton would be if their two rooms occupied the same space. He smiled and said, "How are you doing? Are you enjoying your trip?" Timmins' grandmother was in the bathroom next door, washing her hands. Hearing him, she shook her head. "Timmins is talking to himself again." Timmins let himself reminisce a little. He recalled one of Anton's visits to his basement studio, almost a year before. His paintings then had been gruesome and dark. "My god," said Anton. "What does your grandmother think of this?" "She doesn't come down here much. She thinks it's creepy." "There's nothing creepy about these pictures. They're visions. There's nothing creepy about visions! What's creepy is that they're down here in the cellar, like Jews hiding from the Nazis, one step from the death camps. Why don't you give them some air? What they need is air, and light." "She doesn't want them in the house. It makes her guests uncomfortable." "It's pathetic but it's true, isn't it? Most people in this town would take these pictures as a slap in the face. And I can almost say, you meant them that way." Timmins looked down and shuffled his feet. "If she doesn't have the courage to put these pictures on the wall and say to her guests, 'My grandson is a genius, and if it makes you uncomfortable, get out of my house'—if she won't hang them in the parlor to improve her digestion, and over her bed to help her sleep—if you can't see your pictures displayed with pride in your own home, then you don't really live here, do you?" Timmins was almost in tears. "This is pathetic. We need to find another solution." A few weeks later, they stood in the high, open space of a disused barn. Flies buzzed in the summer heat, hints of breeze came through holes in the roof, dry straw was scattered on the earth. Suspended from the central beam, struck by a shaft of light, was a large painting. Anton was shown as a flaming angel in descent. He 'd been shot in the chest, and his white robe was stained with blood. The strength in his wings was failing. Unable to support his weight in the air any longer, he was about to become a meteor. Anton swallowed. "So that's me? There is a vague resemblance." He checked the front of his shirt to see if there was blood. "What's it called?" he asked after a long silence. "'Angel Shot by High-Powered Rifle.'" "It's a prophecy, right?" He felt like he'd walked into a museum devoted to his secret fate. Timmins said nothing. "So, is it symbolic or literal? Do you mean to say it will happen just this way? Or that whatever happens to me will have a bit of this in it, to set the mood? "I don't know. I just made the painting." "It's an important difference," he said petulantly. "I'd like to know. Should I prepare to be cut down in a moment of glory, or will it be more like a series of small defeats?" • • • Anton took Timmins' sketch of him and held it up to the wall. He wanted to attach it somehow, but he had no pins or tape. Finally he removed the sad-faced clown from the frame where it hung, and replaced it with Timmins' piece. By the light of the desk lamp he studied his work. He shrugged and switched off the light. He stripped to his briefs in the dark, folding his clothes carefully over the chair. He stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head, feeling the rough texture of the sheets against his skin. He played negligently with the small hairs below his navel. As a rule, he treated his body with curiosity and respect, as an object of rare beauty that didn't really belong to him. Sensing that its presence in the room was no longer required, his mind drifted on to other things. His parents' faces appeared before him, seeming to float there like grotesque balloons. Feeling that they were taking up too much space, he pushed them away. They bobbed off slowly, wearing expressions of concern. Just behind them were Becky and Timmins. On seeing Timmins, he moaned and curled up on the bed, holding the pillow to his chest. He saw Timmins standing barefoot in a newly ploughed field, wearing nothing but overalls and a straw hat. Behind him at some distance was a boxy white farmhouse, the trees around it bare. Anton wondered if he was cold. Next he saw Timmins in the same scene, only in midsummer with the corn surging around his chest. The air was full of lively colors: gold, green and blue. Timmins was smiling and seemed to be saying something. Anton shifted restlessly on the bed, but the auditory connection wasn't in. He stopped visualizing Timmins and tried instead to think of all the things he knew about Timmins. He made a short list. Timmins' name was Timmins. They'd decided this long ago. He was delicate, smooth, and pale like young corn. He had a transparency Anton liked. He had special powers. He could communicate across time and space. Dreams and the physical world were the same to him. His parents and little sister had been killed in a car crash when he was thirteen. He was here in this world for the first time. Anton hoped it wasn't too hard on him. • • • Anton woke and looked around him. He lay in a strange bed, in a strange city. He was no longer in Iowa, in his parents' house, which made him happy. He pushed himself against the mattress on his elbows, making the bed frame squeak. He rocked, bouncing himself, feeling the springs against the back of his legs. "Oh, boy!" He had his duffelbag and his bass, his shower kit and a couple of clean shirts. "And in the desk drawer is a Bible, I bet." He got up to check. Sure enough, it was there. "Everything I need to face the world, good morning!" Standing by the bed in his undershorts, he was cold, aware of his skinniness. Out the window the building folded in on itself, dropping three stories to a sullen courtyard. He stuck his head out and spat. "I wonder how you get down there?" He could tie the bed sheets together and climb down, bare feet scraping on brick, the soles of his feet raw by the time he reached the bottom. "And once I'm down there, how do I get out?" He saw himself howling for help, a hungry cat, a little boy with his head caught in an iron grate. He padded down the hall, flipping his waistband. "I suppose I should put on some pants," so he went back to his room to find them, draped on the back of the chair. He remembered his slow, careful motions of the night before, folding them: pale limbs outlined in reflected light, eyes alive, thinking, "This is electric air." The carpet under his feet felt tired. There was an interval of steam and tile, which reminded him of a cave. He stood at the mirror, naked and dripping, admiring himself as if in a trance. He didn't care if some phlegmatic old man came in and found him like this. He had nothing to hide. His body was a challenge, a slap in the face to the rest of the world, which pretended that such perfection did not exist. His jaw was sharp and pushed against the skin, making every movement clearly visible. His eyes were as still as a pond in winter, his gaze disconcertingly frank and direct. He only blinked out of politeness, and when he looked away, it meant he was ready to leave. His muscles were tightly wound even when he was relaxed, his skin smooth and taut. His body had a violent energy that it released in easy, springy movements. It had a balance and economy so perfect it resembled a machine, but a machine with a raw and unpredictable force. What he saw pleased him, because he knew that the body was the mirror of the soul. Surface deformities were a sign of corruption beneath. The hypocrite, the backbiter, and the chronic loser could be identified by their surface traits. "My own weak points will be visible soon enough," he reminded himself. "That's how I'll know what they are." He imagined himself with the hollow eyes of an older man, stubble on his cheeks, skin a dull gray like the belly of a salamander, a face scared of itself. "Is that what I'll become?" <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>