“What do you mean?”
“Your son, he's out there somewhere in the world.” Hated myself for going on but went on anyway: “Do you have any idea where he is? Maybe you could trace him, find him, see him?”
I felt her stiffen as she withdrew from me. “I haven't allowed myself to think that, Paul. I gave up all that when I gave him up.”
“How old would he be, now? Twelve? Thirteen?”
“Thirteen, this coming August. August twenty-first. I wonder if he's short or tall. His father was tall, a basketball star. Good-looking, too. I hope he's tall like his father, not short and dumpy like me….”
“You're not dumpy. …”
She smiled, wanly. Cheeks still stained with tears.
“Good old Paul.” Then, brushing back her hair: “No. I could never look him up. Gave my word. Wouldn't know where to look anyway.”
“He was born in Maine. Where did you say in Maine?”
“He was born in the hospital in Bangor. But the convent was on the outskirts of a small town called Ramsey. A spooky old stone building that rambled all over the place. Part of the convent was sealed off for the contemplative nuns. They never left that section of the convent except for daily mass and vespers in the evening. Sister Anunciata and a few others did the chores, cooked and cleaned.”
Ramsey. The order of the Sisters of Mercy. Could she provide more information?
“God, they were good to me,” Rose continued. “Wonderful Sister Anunciata with her blue eyes brimming over with cheer and hope. She was my buddy. Don't worry, she told me the day I left, we have found a good home for him.”
She rose to her feet, tears gone. “Thank you for the good shoulder to cry on.”
She kissed me on the cheek as she encircled me with her arms. At the doorway, she paused in the semidarkness, the white nightgown flowing dimly around her, and waved good night.
Later, lying on the old couch, unable as usual to summon the sweet oblivion of sleep, excited by the knowledge that the fader existed and was perhaps even now waiting for my arrival, I felt the signals of the fade's arrival, the taking away of the breath that meant the pause. I tried to fight it off, girding myself uselessly for the flash of pain because I had never solved the problem of holding off the fade. As I lost the battle again this time, I was grateful at least that Rose was sleeping in the next room and had not seen my body becoming nothing before her eyes.
There is this about the fade:
Its ever-changing nature, the many faces it presents.
At first, the fade was controllable and I held the power to summon or dismiss it. After a while, it began to manifest itself without invitation and without warning.
Once at a dinner party at Andre's Restaurant celebrating Armand's fortieth birthday, I felt the imminence of the fade as we raised our glasses in a champagne toast. I put the glass down immediately and excused myself. I made my way without delay to the men's room, rushing among the tables, absorbing the flash of pain. Inside, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above one of the sinks and saw my body disintegrating. Engulfed by the cold, I rushed into one of the stalls, slammed the door shut and slipped the bolt into place. Even as I did so, I did not see the hand that secured the bolt. Heart beating furiously, flesh damp with perspiration on flesh I could not see, I marveled at my narrow escape. Throughout my life, my biggest fear had been the manifestation of the fade in the presence of others.
I dreaded illness, feared the possibility of a disease or a condition that would call for surgery or a stay in the hospital during which I would have no control over the fade and no place to hide. My tenement became my hiding place. For three weeks one year, when pain tore at my intestines, I isolated myself at home, curled up in bed, gritting my teeth when the pain accelerated, fearing a burst appendix or internal hemorrhaging. I kept a chart of my rising temperature, 102, 103. Chills accompanying the fever, the pain sometimes fugitive in my stomach, sometimes fierce. Looked at myself in the mirror in the bedroom and said over and over again: I will not go to the hospital, I will not go to the hospital. Finally the symptoms grew less intense, the pain a distant echo of its former self, my temperature receding, returning to normal. Afterward, I remained always on guard, bundled up well in winter to avoid chills, drank fruit juices every day, watched my weight, strolled the streets as exercise, careful not to eat too much or drink too much.
The fade exhibited other variations as the years passed. It began to diminish me. In the aftermath of the experience, I was left limp with exhaustion, without appetite, listless, with no direction or ambition. This lassitude sometimes remained for days, a week or two. I found it impossible to sit at the typewriter and I remained in bed or on the couch for days at a time, trying finally to set down words with pen and paper. This never worked for me. My best writing always comes when I am at the typewriter, at the old L. C. Smith, the keys clattering beneath my fingers, trying to capture in type the swift words leaping from my mind.
The last time my uncle Adelard returned to Frenchtown —the autumn before he died—I was appalled to see the toll that the years and the fade had taken. He had lost weight alarmingly, the flesh of his face taut over his cheekbones, eyes sunk deep into their sockets. “Every time the fade comes,” he said, “it takes more out of me. No flash of pain these days, nothing like that. But it's killing me by inches, Paul, eating away at me.”
I realized as I stared at my uncle that I was looking at my own future.
During that last visit we didn't walk the streets of French-town but sat on my porch in the cool evenings, wearing bulky sweaters, drinking beer, silent for long intervals but companionable in our silences. I pointed out how ironic it was that the fade had made him wander to far places while it had kept me here in Frenchtown.
“Why have you stayed here, Paul?” he asked.
Wasn't it obvious? “Because here, in Frenchtown, Uncle, I have some control over the unpredictability of the fade. I feel safe here. If the fade happens unexpectedly—and it comes that way more and more—I am never far from home.” Yet there was more. “In a way, the fade has made me the writer I am. I always wanted to roam the world, envied you and your wanderings. But I discovered that I didn't have to leave Frenchtown to write. I had dreamed of fame and fortune, crowds cheering me on my arrival in great cities, beautiful women throwing themselves at me. But I learned that the beauty comes from the writing itself and that fame has nothing to do with cheering crowds and being chased by women.” I paused then:
“And you, Uncle, did you find out there what I found here?”
“It was different for me, Paul, because the fade itself was different in my case. There were things …”
Across the street in St. Jude's Church the choir was rehearsing as it always did on certain nights of the week, faint voices raised in song.
“What things?” I asked, my voice hushed, sensing that at long last he perhaps was ready to speak in some detail about the fade.
“These days, the fade wears me out. In the old days, the fade made me crazy. Took command of my body, my senses. Made me want to do things that were opposite to my nature. Gave me wild desires. Made me feel as if I could do anything. More than that: I wanted to do things.
“Sometimes I gave in. Stole, broke into stores, a warehouse once. Always in the dark, at night. Break a window and into the store I went. Or went in earlier and remained there after the owner locked up and left. Saw where he hid the money, unless he took it to a night deposit at the bank. I learned the tricks of hiding money after a while. They put the money in cigar boxes or behind bottles on a shelf, never in a drawer. One night I robbed ten stores, in a town in Ohio. Broke into them in a frenzy, crazy. In my room later, I counted up the money. Almost twelve hundred dollars, in small bills. Counted the money, laughing while the glow of the fade was still with me but the next morning, like a hangover, I looked at the money in panic. And gave it away. Mailed some back to a few of the stores. The sin, Paul, is that I wanted that money, wanted to go
on a big spree. But could not. Had to give it back. Maybe that is the real curse of the fade. That I couldn't use it for pleasure.”
I said nothing, amazed at last that he was speaking so frankly and afraid he might stop if I made a comment.
“And women. It was the same with women, worse, I guess. I have never been a lady's man—awkward with them, shy. I was nothing particular to look at. The fade never helped. It was only good for spying on them, or standing close for a moment before they felt me there. One night, in this rooming house in North Dakota, I wandered the corridors after one o'clock, burning for a woman. The fade made me burn, set me on fire. I found a door unlocked, had seen the woman who occupied the room. Young, beautiful. I slipped into her room, saw her sleeping, in a nightgown, no blankets, a warm night. I stood by her bed. Moved closer. Lifted my hand, gentle, gentle, easy, touched her shoulder. She moaned, stirred in her sleep, her body moving, which made me burn more. I caressed her. Know what I mean, Paul? Caressed her. Her eyes flew open, I pulled back my hand. She screamed. I have never heard such a scream, such terror in a voice. Screamed and screamed again. She stared at me. Not at me but at the space where I stood. She sensed me there, knew something was there and this made it more horrible for her. Everybody came running, knocks at the door, lights went on, and I was almost trampled, had to fall back against a wall. She did not stop screaming for a long time and then cried, could not be consoled, and I had to remain there, looking at her. I heard her say: Something touched me. Something touched me. On my knees, in a corner of the room, I saw what I had become. A something, a monster. This is what the fade made me. A monster.”
But I already knew that.
And knew that I, too, was a monster.
During all those years we shared the fade, during all of my uncle's comings and goings in my life, we spoke only once of my uncle Vincent, who was his brother, and my brother Bernard, who was his nephew. The conversation took place during the time of Bernard's wake.
My uncle had appeared without advance notice, as usual, as if emerging from the fade, on the steps of my grandfather's house, the second evening of Bernard's wake. In those days, the wakes went on for three days and three nights, around the clock, at the home of the deceased, the house never empty or silent, coffee always bubbling on the stove, the smell of food mingling with the sweet-sick scent of flowers. Bernard's coffin was placed in the parlor, all the curtains drawn. A bouquet of white carnations hung by the front door announcing the death in our family.
I could not bear to look at Bernard in the coffin, his beauty waxen now and unreal, his First Communion rosary in his pale clasped hands. Yet I was drawn again and again to his coffin, knelt to pray even though the words were empty and meaningless.
My mother turned out to be the strong one in the family, bustling about the rooms, presiding at the stove, greeting my aunts and the neighborhood women who brought steaming dishes and platters of sandwiches and pastries into the house. My father was mute with grief, standing wordlessly near the coffin for long periods, his eyes like shattered marbles.
My brother and sisters went through the terrible rituals of bereavement, eyes downcast, speaking in monosyllables, stunned with the sudden fact of death in the midst of our days and evenings. While all this time within me was the flowering knowledge that told me I was to blame for Bernard's death.
Let me now put into words what I have not been able to do during the long, aching passage of the years.
I killed Rudolphe Toubert.
Held the knife that entered his body. And stabbed him again and again.
The scene is as vivid in my mind at this moment as it was a lifetime ago.
* * *
I stood with the knife in my hand and Rudolphe Toubert saw it.
But what did he really see?
A knife suspended in the air. A miracle, magic, and, of course, utterly impossible.
Forgetting that I was in the fade, I had picked up the knife from the counter and turned to face him. Found him facing me, and immediately realized my mistake. My uncle Adelard had warned me that once I was in the fade, any object that I touched or picked up or moved would give the game away, would appear to be moving by itself.
I pondered my next move. I knew that it was necessary for me to inflict injury on him as revenge for what he did to my father and the workers, to my aunt Rosanna, to Bernard and hundreds of Frenchtown boys, myself included. Did I want to kill him? Can I truly answer that after all these years? Maybe there was murder in my heart, but is the wish father to the act?
At any rate, he saw the knife.
I looked at it, too, floating in the air, above the counter, held in my right hand but the hand unseen.
Rudolphe Toubert stared. More than stared. His eyes almost popped out of his head. At the same time, he began to rise from the chair, his two hands flat on the desk, pushing himself up, his eyes riveted to the knife.
Then he looked away, shook his head vigorously, eyes on the door, leaning against the desk. He raised one hand and rubbed his eyes and I knew it was imperative that I move quickly, to hide the knife so that when he looked back it would be gone and he would consign what he had seen a moment before to a fancy of light or his own mind playing tricks on him.
But I was not quick enough.
He peeked at me, his hands covering his face but one eye visible between two spread fingers, and the eye pinned itself on that knife.
“Jesus,” he said, his mouth still gaping. He came around to the front of the desk, as if hypnotized by the knife.
I laughed.
Not exactly a laugh but a giggle, a giggle of delight and triumph, enjoying not only the sight of Rudolphe Toubert sweating with fear but knowing also that my laugh, my chuckle, would hurl him into further horrors.
His eyes left the knife and lifted to the source of that chuckle and he began to babble incoherently, his body twitching, his mouth working to bring forth sounds—a scream for help, perhaps, or for sanity—and then his babbling ceased. He could not speak. He stood mute and paralyzed.
That was when he did the unexpected, catching me off guard and unaware. As if propelled by a catapult, he shot across the floor, legs springing him forward, hands extended, eyes wild and frenzied. Caught by surprise, I stood rooted to the spot, hands extended, the knife still pointing toward him as he came. He reached out as if to bat the knife away but ran into it and into me at the same time, knocking me backward. I held on to the knife and saw it enter his chest, spilling blood immediately on the striped shirt. He looked down, staring in disbelief, placed his hand on his chest and watched his hand being covered with blood. Like my father an hour before.
Raising his head, he let out a scream. “No …” The word echoing stridently in the garage.
He began to fall. As he fell he reached out, and his hands brushed my legs, clutching for support, and I pulled away. As I did so, I stabbed at him with the knife, sinking the blade into his back as he fell to his knees. Stabbed him again and again. For my father, for the strikers, for Bernard, for Ro-sanna. For me.
He sank to the floor in a puddle of blood.
The story of Rudolphe Toubert's murder filled the pages of the Monument Times for three days. Pictures of the office where his body was found, an inset showing his face, his bow tie, his thin moustache.
On the second day, there was a blurred photo of Herve Boisseneau, evidently taken by a box camera, as he stood on the steps of the three-decker on Seventh Street.
The headline over his picture said:
MURDER SUSPECT SOUGHT
In smaller print below:
Weapon Missing
The murder took the spotlight away from the settlement of the strike, although the Times ran a story at the bottom of page one reporting that “management and employees have reached an agreement on disputes that had occasioned a near five-month walkout that halted operations at the shop.”
Armand threw the paper down on the kitchen table, snorting: “They can't come right out and say th
e shop lost and the workers won.”
My father explained: “It's not as simple as that, Armand. We've got a long way to go. Some experts are coming from Washington to arrange for an election. The workers have to vote for a union if they want one. Maybe, they'll vote against it….”
Fire in Armand's eyes as he answered: “Never in a million years, Dad. Uncle Victor says—”
“I know, Armand, I know,” my father said, and Armand saw that he had been joking. My father had not joked for a long time. “Listen, Armand, Pve been thinking it over. If you want to quit school and work in the shop, okay. Go ahead. The times are different now. Maybe we need young guys like you to see that things will change.”
Armand whooped with delight, leaping from his chair, clasping his hands above his head, like Joe Louis being crowned champion of the world. I saw a shadow cross my father's face and vowed that I would graduate from high school and bring home a diploma to hang on the wall in the parlor.
The church.
Once again, I knelt in a pew in a shadowed area, watching the penitents come and go. Once again, I felt a need to confess, to unburden myself, to whisper to the priest the sin I had committed. Murdered, broken the fifth commandment. My earlier sins seemed paltry now—touching my aunt's breast reduced to a venial sin by comparison. If I had found it difficult to confess small sins, how could I utter words to describe an act of murder? I shuddered, anticipating the reaction of the priest. I had been taught in school that the seal of the confessional could not be violated, that the priest must listen in silence and remain silent. Kneeling there, as candle flame leapt against the dim walls, I knew that my act went beyond whispering words in the ear of a priest. I had offended God. Who had made the world and made me.
Forgive me, dear Jesus.
And waited for a sign.
The penitents came and went, the candles flickered, the sun slanted through the window that depicted the end of the world.
No sign—should I have expected one?