Before and Afterlives
9. Sad Alone
In the woods at night, the girl danced to the songs of frogs throating, crickets chirring, wind snaking through leaves, the gurgle of the nearby creek. A happy marriage these sounds made, so the girl danced, surrounded by fireflies and moths.
She could still see the fire through the spaces between the trees, her family’s campsite near the cabin, so she was safe. She wasn’t doing anything wrong—she was following the rules—so the mother shouldn’t come running to pull her back to the fire to sit with her and the father. He was back again, but he didn’t seem to be there. Notreally there, that is. He didn’t look at the girl during dinner, only stared into the fire before him, slouching. He didn’t open his mouth for any bubbles to come out.
Now that it was night, the little old man was back again. This had become a regular event. In the early evening, after dinner, the little old man would leave, promising to be back before sunset at nine-thirty, or else he’d spend the night with his new friend. This time, though, the little old man had come back with his new friend riding along on a bike beside him, saying, “This is Roy. He’ll be spending the night.”
The girl missed the little old man when he was gone now, but she didn’t dwell on this too much. The little old man no longer glowered at her, no longer gripped her hand too tight like the mother did; he no longer looked angry all the time, so she forgave his absence. He was happy, the girl realized, and in realizing the little old man’s happiness and the distance between them that went along with it, she realized her own happiness as well. She didn’t miss him enough to be sad about his absence, unlike the father, who made the mother sad when he was gone, who made everyone miss him in a way that made them want to cry or shout in his face.
This moth, the girl thought, stopping her dance for the moment. If she could find this moth, the moth that the father was looking for, perhaps he would come back and be happy, and make the mother happy, and then everyone could be happy together, instead of sad alone. She smiled, proud of her idea, and turned to the fireflies and moths that surrounded her to ask the question:
“Can anyone help me?”
To which the insects all responded at once, their voices a chorus, asking, “What can we do? Are you all right? What? What?”
So the girl began to speak.
10. Each in their Own Place
Dr. Carroll is sitting by the campfire, staring at his two booted feet. Eliot’s mother is saying, “This week it will happen. You can’t get down on yourself. It’s only been a month. You have the rest of the summer still. Don’t worry.”
Eliot’s mother is cooking barbecued beans in a pot over the campfire. The flames lick at the bottom of the pan. Dr. Carroll shakes his head, looking distraught. There are new wrinkles in his forehead, and also around his mouth.
This has been a regular event over the past few weeks, Eliot’s father returning briefly for supplies and rest, looking depressed and slightly damaged, growing older-looking before Eliot’s eyes. Eliot feels bad for his father, but he’d also like to say, I told you so. That’s just too mean, though, he’s decided. The Old Eliot would have said that, the New Eliot won’t.
The New Eliot is a recent change he’s been experiencing, and it’s because of Roy. Roy’s changed him somehow without trying, and probably without even wanting to make Eliot into someone new in the first place. Eliot supposes this is what happens when you meet a person with whom you can truly communicate. The New Eliot will always try to be nice and not so world-weary. He will not say mean things to his parents or sister. He will love them and think about their needs, because his no longer seem so bad off.
Roy says, “Is it always like this?” He and Eliot are sitting on the swing in the cabin’s front porch. The swing’s chains squeal above their heads as they rock. This is Roy’s first visit to the place. Eliot’s tried to keep him away from his family, because even though he’s made the choice to be nice, he’s still embarrassed by them a little. Also, he’d rather have Roy to himself.
That’s another thing that’s come between them. It happened a couple of weeks back. Roy and Eliot had been hanging out together, getting into minor trouble. They’d spray-painted their names on an overpass; egged Roy’s neighbor’s car; toilet-papered the high school Roy attends; drank whiskey until they’ve puked. It’s been a crazy summer, the best Eliot can remember really, and he doesn’t want it to ever stop. Usually he goes to computer camp or just sits in front of the TV playing video games until school starts back up. Besides the vandalism and the drunken bouts, Eliot thinks he has fallen in love. Something like that. He and Roy have become like a couple, without using those words, without telling anyone else.
“My father’s like Sisyphus,” Eliot says, and Roy gives him this puzzled look.
“What did you say?”
“Sisyphus,” Eliot repeats. “He was this guy from myth who was doomed by the gods to roll a rock up a mountain, but it keeps rolling back down when he gets to the top, so he has to roll it up again, over and over. Camus says it’s the definition of the human condition, that myth. My mother teaches a class on it.”
“Oh.” Roy shakes his head. “Well, whatever.”
Thatwhatever is another thing that’s come between them. Lately Roy says it whenever he doesn’t understand Eliot, and doesn’t care to try. It makes Eliot want to punch Roy right in the face. Eliot has taken to saying it as well, to see if it pisses off Roy as much, but whenever he says, “Whatever,” Roy doesn’t seem to give a damn. He just keeps on talking without noticing Eliot’s attempts to make him angry.
The fireflies have come out for the evening, glowing on and off in the night mist. Crickets chirp, rubbing their legs together. An owl calls out its own name in the distance. Dawn is running between trees, her figure a silhouette briefly illuminated by the green glow of the fireflies, a shadow in the woods. Eliot still hasn’t introduced her to Roy, and Roy hasn’t asked why she acts so strangely, which makes Eliot think maybe he should explain before Roy says something mean about her, not understanding her condition. Dawn irritates Eliot, but he still doesn’t want other people saying nasty things about her.
“She’s autistic,” Eliot says all of a sudden, pre-empting Roy’s remarks. He pushes against the porch floorboards to make them swing faster, so Roy can’t get off this ride too quick.
Roy doesn’t seem shocked, though, or even interested in Dawn’s erratic behavior. And why should he be? Eliot thinks. Roy himself has told Eliot much weirder things about his family. He told Eliot that first day, over an ice cream at the gas station, that he lived with his grandparents because his mother was an alcoholic, and his father was who-knows-where. That his mother would fight anyone in town, even Roy when she was drunk. That his grandfather was a member of the Ku Klux Klan, that he had found the white robes and the pointy hood in his grandfather’s closet. That his grandmother used to sit him down at night before bed and read to him for a half an hour out of the Bible, and that afterwards she’d tell him he was born in sin, and should pray for forgiveness. It frightens Eliot a little, and makes him shiver, thinking of what it must be like to be Roy. He only hopes Roy’s secret-sharing doesn’t require an admission of his own private weirdnesses. He’s not ready for that.
“Let’s go inside,” Roy says, putting his feet down flat on the porch. The swing suddenly comes to a halt. Roy stands and Eliot follows him into the cabin, already knowing what’s going to happen. It’s a vice of Roy’s, fooling around in places where they might get caught.
We won’t get caught here, Eliot thinks. His parents are outside by the heat of the fire, involved in their own problems. They won’t bother to come inside the cabin now. Roy leads Eliot to the pink-quilted cot and they lay down together, and begin to kiss.
Roy’s lips are larger than Eliot’s. Eliot feels like his lips aren’t big enough. They’re too thin and soft, like rose petals. Roy, he thinks, would probably like his lips bigger and rougher, chapped even. He can feel the cracks in Roy’s lips, can taste Roy’s
cigarettes. Roy’s stubble scratches Eliot’s cheeks in this way that makes him crazy. Then Roy is pulling off Eliot’s shirt, kissing Eliot’s stomach, unbuttoning Eliot’s shorts. Eliot closes his eyes. He mouths the words,Someone is in love with me. He is in the habit of mouthing sentences silently when he wants what he is saying to be true.
He feels his shorts being tugged down, then his breath catches in his throat, and he is off, off, off. Far away, his parents argue and his sister runs through the wilderness like a woodland creature, a nymph. Each of them in their private spaces, like the sections his mother made of the cabin when they first arrived. Each of them in their own place.
11. What the Firefly Said
“So,” said the firefly, “you’re looking for a moth.”
The girl nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Actually, it’s for my father. He’s been searching for over a month.”
“And what does it look like?” the firefly said, floating in front of her face. “You know, a moth is a moth is a moth. But that’s just my opinion.”
“This one glows,” she said. “An orangey-pink. It has brown and gold streaks on its back, and also it only comes out at night.”
“Hmm,” said the firefly. “I see. Wait here a moment.”
The firefly flew off. The girl watched it for a while, then lost it among the other greenish blips. She sighed, sat down on the ground beneath a pine tree, picking up a few needles covered in sticky sap.
“I’m back,” said the firefly, and the girl looked up. It had brought a friend, and they both landed on her lap.
“I know who you’re looking for,” the other firefly said.
The girl felt a rush of excitement churl in her stomach. Her face flushed with heat. “Really?” she said. “Oh, please, you must help me find it.”
“This moth, though,” the firefly said, “it’s a bit of a loner. There are a few of them I know of, but they don’t even talk amongst themselves. I don’t understand them. You know, we fireflies, we like to have a good time. We like to party.” It chuckled softly and nudged its friend.
“I’ll do anything,” the girl said. “Please, if only it would make my father happier. He looks paler and thinner each time he comes back.”
“Well,” the firefly said. “Let me see what I can make happen. I have a lot of connections. We’ll see what turns up.”
“Thank you,” said the girl, “Oh, thank you, thank you.”
The fireflies both floated off. She sat under the tree for a while longer, thinking everything would be good now. Her whole family would be happy for once.
Then the mother and the father were calling her name, loud, over and over. She saw them coming towards her, running. The mother pulled her up from the ground and said, “I was so worried, so worried.” The father grunted and led them back to the cabin, where the little old man and his new friend were sitting by the campfire.
“I can’t do this anymore,” said the mother. “I can’t keep her in one place. She’s always wandering off.”
“Just a little longer,” said the father. “I can’t go back without it. I’ve been teaching the same classes to an endless stream of students. I can’t go back without this.”
The mother nodded and rubbed her temples. “I know,” she said. “I know.”
Then the little old man told his friend, “This is my sister. Her name is Dawn. She doesn’t talk much.”
The little old man’s friend stared at her for a moment. His eyes grew wide; he smiled at her. The little old man’s friend said, “Your sister’s beautiful,” as if he couldn’t believe it himself.
12. Your Sister’s Beautiful
Your sister’s beautiful.
Your sister’s beautiful.
Your sister’s beautiful.
Lying on his cot, staring at the bare rafters of the cabin, imagining Roy hanging by his neck from one of the rafters, his face blue in death, Eliot cannot force Roy’s words out of his mind. He’s been hearing them over and over since Roy—stupid idiotic trashy no-good thoughtless bastard—said them three nights ago.
Your sister’s beautiful.
And me? Eliot thinks. What about me? Why couldn’t Roy have said the same thing about Eliot, with whom he’s much more involved and supposedly loves enough to take to bed? Eliot is thinking, I should kill him. I should be like one of those people on talk shows, or in novels. I should commit a crime of passion that anyone could understand.
Outside somewhere, Roy is hanging out with Dawn. He’s been with Eliot for over a month and never once cared to come up to the cabin until Eliot brought him himself. Now he’s come up everyday since that first night, and Eliot has been ignoring him defiantly, walking away when Roy starts to speak, finding opportunities to make Roy feel stupid, talking to his mother about high-minded philosophical things in front of Roy. Even if Eliot himself doesn’t understand some of the things that comes out of his mother’s mouth, he’s been around her long enough to pretend like he knows what he’s talking about; he knows enough catch-phrases to get by. Whatever works, he’s thinking, to make that jerk go away or feel sorry.
Eliot notices that everything is strangely quiet, both inside the cabin and out. He sits up in bed and looks out the window. The campfire is a pile of ashes, still glowing orange and red from last night. His mother is nowhere to be seen, and both Roy and Dawn aren’t around either. His father, he thinks, is who-knows-where.
Eliot goes outside and looks around back of the cabin. Nothing but weeds and a few scrub bushes and saplings grow here. He walks to the edge of the woods, to where the trails begin, and starts to worry. Dawn. He hasn’t been in a state of mind to watch her, and his mother has proved ineffectual at the task. He mouths the words,My sister is safe and around that tree there, playing with a caterpillar, and then he goes to check.
Dawn’s not behind the tree, and there are no caterpillars in sight. Eliot suddenly clenches his teeth. He hears, somewhere close by, Roy’s voice. He can’t make out what Roy is saying, but he’s talking to someone in that voice of his—the idiotic stupid no-good trashy bastard voice.
Eliot walks in the direction of the voice. He follows a trail until it narrows and dips down into a ravine. There’s the creek where he and Dawn watched crayfish for hours. The way water moves, the way it sparkles under light, and reflects the things around it, the trees and Eliot’s and Dawn’s own faces, can entrance Dawn for hours. The creek holds the image of the world on its surface, the trees and clouds and a sun pinned like a jewel on its narrow, rippled neck. Beneath the creek, under the water, is another world, full of crayfish and snakes and fish no bigger than fingers. Eliot wonders if his mother has included something philosophical about the creek in her feminist revision ofWalden. He wonders if she’s noticed the same things that he notices.
Roy’s voice fades, then reappears, like a trick or a prank, and soon Eliot sees him sitting under a tree with Dawn. Roy’s talking to her real sweet. Eliot recognizes that voice. He’s playing with Dawn’s hand, which she keeps pulling away from him. Roy doesn’t know Dawn hates to be touched. The only thing she can stand is a tight embrace, and then she won’t ever let go. It’s a symptom, her doctor has told the family, of her autism.
Now Roy is leaning into Dawn, trying to kiss her, and Dawn pulls her head back. She stands up and starts walking towards the creek. Eliot feels his hands clench, becoming fists. Roy stands up and follows Dawn. He walks in front of her and she squeals in his face. A high-pitched banshee squeal. The squeal, Eliot thinks, of death.
Eliot finds he is running towards them, his fists ready to pummel Roy. He wonders if he can actually do it, he hasn’t ever used them before, not like this. Can I do it, he wonders, as Roy turns with a surprised expression on his face.
Yes, he can.
His first punch lands on Roy’s cheekbone, right under Roy’s eye. The second one glances blandly off of Roy’s stomach, making Roy double up and expel a gasp of breath. Then Eliot is screaming at the top of his lungs, “Get out! Get the hell out! Get
the hell out!” His voice turns hoarser each time he screams, but he keeps screaming anyway. Roy looks up at Eliot with a red mark on his face. It’s already darkening into a bruise that Eliot wishes he could take a picture of and frame. He’d like to hang it on his wall and keep it forever. A reminder of his ignorance.
Roy says, “Whatever. Fucking faggot,” and starts to walk away, back up the trail. When he reaches the top of the ravine and walks over it, he disappears from Eliot’s sight, and from Eliot’s life, forever.
Eliot is breathing heavily, ready to hit Roy again. He’s a little surprised at how easy it was, that he has a space inside him that harbors violence. At the same time, he’s impressed with himself. He’s not sure if he should feel afraid or proud of his actions. He’s not sure if he has room for both.
Dawn stands beside him, looking into his face. She’s quiet and still for once in her life. She smoothes down the wrinkles in her shorts with the flats of her hands, over and over. He’s most likely disturbed her. Or Roy has. Or both of them did. Eliot says, “Come on, let’s go back.” He doesn’t yell at her or yank her wrist. And Dawn follows him up the trail, out of the ravine, back to the cabin.
13. The Assignation
Something woke her late in the night.Tap, tap, tap. Something kept tapping, and so she sat up in bed and looked around her. The mother and father were asleep on their cots, the little old man slept on the other side of the sheet separating them. None of them were tapping.
Then she heard it again, and looked over her shoulder. In the window square, two fireflies hovered, blinking out a message.Outside. Five minutes.
The girl quietly got out of her cot and stepped into her sandals. She pulled a piece of hair out of her mouth. Peaking around the corner of the sheet, she watched the little old man for a while, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythms of sleep. Earlier that evening, she and the little old man had sat in their respective corners, on their respective cots, and by the light of a lantern, they had made shadow creatures appear on the sheet separating their rooms. Bats and butterflies, and even a dog’s head that could open its mouth and bark. She loved the little old man, and wished she could tell him as much.